The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

Volume-1                                              december-2011                                                    Number-2






by Jeffrey Park

When the storms come late at night

blowing dead leaves and newspapers

through the fence

and the multicolored stains on

the ceiling stay put even after you

blink your eyes

and the home shopping channel tries

one final last time to sell you that

special-in-a-negative-way product

and the snoring has stopped, though

the breathing hasn’t – as you realize

with only a mild sense of relief

and the absence of a drip from the

faucet in the downstairs bathroom

gradually becomes painful…

only then must it at last be the proper

time to roll over once, twice, sniff

the dark air and set yourself to dream,

set yourself at last to dream of mystic

green temples and all the picture

postcards that you never will send.




by Jeffrey Park

Tried to cross over the bridge

but it was all one-way

traffic coming at us

over the span –

down the steep bank then

ford the stream

where the stones are smaller

less jagged

toil up the far side only to find

that it’s wrong-way traffic

there too, a bridge

that can’t be crossed

from either end.

Just be glad you’re not on it,

it’s bumper

to bumper

in every direction.