The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

Volume-1                                              december-2011                                                    Number-2






   by Michael H. Brownstein


July opened into my life

sweat stained,

the low slanged sky

full of curse words and abominations,

the heart of a beaver,

and then:

a swamp of sun after a shade of breath,

the shelf of wind in disarray behind bolted doors

and when the rains came,

it was almost human outside






   by Michael H. Brownstein


The wind a shovel of coal, scrubbed

land, mocking birds and a lost way,

whisk and twig, branch and bark, lance

and a book of matches within reach

on the end table. When you play

with matches, you do not always get burned.

Sometimes you are warmer because of them

and other times they mark the skin of your kora,

etch your shakaree, cut small dimples

across the band of grasses, deep and earnest,

fields and fields of buttermilk and lye.

Sit by the stream nearby and sing the grass song,

let your kora blossom into an opera of string.

Michael H. Brownstein