Daughters of Zeus

image from pinterest.com 

Daughters of Zeus

“Muses work all day long and then at night get

together and dance.”--Edgar Degas.

Sturdy Calliope, twas you

who accompanied me to the mountain top,

and challenged me to compose

my epic existential Western Cinemagenic saga

Blackthorne.

Years have clicked past

and only now does

it approach a conclusion.

Oh, my Clio, your passion

for the past hooked me early on,

and it is firmly anchored

in 73 BC during the Servile Wars,

the Slave Rebellion against Rome

led by Spartacus, a Thracian

much like your self and sisters.

You introduced me to

Howard Fast, Thomas Paine, 

and Dalton Trumbo, all who became

brothers and fathers to me.

Euterpe, you flighty lass,

you bathed me in Native American

branch flutes, and Japanese reed flutes,

as I meditate and create. I even

married a flutist.

Melpomene, you dusky wench,

you come to me drenched in incense

during nightmares, hurricanes, soon

after the deaths of family and friends,

and the blink of eclipses of the sun.

Only your jade eyes pierce

the burka of your darkness.

My fetching Erato,

I do adore thee,

in lust and love and heartbreak,

from sonnet to sorrow,

while rosebuds and red panties

fall quietly to the floor,

and there are three locks on the door.

Yes, you tickle me silly Thalia,

making me chuckle, chortle and guffaw,

as my frisky poetics morph

into nonsense, satire, and burlesque,

gripped by a Commedia state of mind,

when the Mechanicals spread their farce,

and Nature herself can take a joke.

Oh, my Terpsichore,

you get my heels tapping

as the bombastic beat of the blues,

jazz and rock jerk my words

into sweet rhythms and meaningful motion,

as my magnificent messages

become inexorable.

You sit alone, dearest Polyhymnia,

detached and secluded, dressed

in shining white like a fairy queen,

whelped by Mother Mary to become

a good Wiccan Witch. You whisper

of way stations, brotherhood and

ascended masters, stripped naked of

all religions, so sacred to me.

Then there is you, Urania, my sexiest companion,

not bound by atmosphere, or edict, or 

excommunication, wearing a dazzling crown

of a trillion zillian galaxies, while Branson and Bezos

lick the udder of outer space, while Flash and Buck

and John Carter laugh at the skeptics, while string

theory and quantum physics gyrate in my head

like sugar plum demons, while my spirit readies

itself for the Great Transition, when it will sprint

toward the Light, quoting Shakespeare, and

singing Joni Mitchell lyrics

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub