(another re-post from Poetfreak)

Poet, weave your words
into a tapestry of desire.
Cross the warp of loneliness
against the weft of tenderness.
Fashion fabric of sweet caress
to keep us warm, awhile.

Poet, spin your wheel;
press the verbs and nouns
into a *** for our hopes and fears,
to catch the water of our tears,
to hold the memories of the years.
Fire a vessel of your renown.

Poet, strike the iron
into a blade so sharp and true.
Forge a sentence with raging heat,
measure a meter with rhythmic beat,
take words from the dictionary, or the street--
let the smoke of pretense go up the flue!

"My Muse"

Lovely is my muse;
my senses he delights.
Flirty is my muse;
my passion he ignites.
He's the inspiration
for my odes and for my rhymes,
my sonnets and ballads,
even limericks, at times.
Sometimes my muse is lonely
and he fills my heart with pity.
He teases and eludes me;
I must chase him through the city.
At times he disappoints me--
I turn heartbreak into verses.
Heartbreak turns to anger;
I revile my muse with curses.
Someday I’ll tell my muse
of all the poems he’s inspired,
and when inspiration fails me,
my muse, well, he’ll be fired!