The Morning Muse

This time of day the Muses pass
As rolling clouds and dewy grass,
To see their handouts properly bestowed.
How much I’ve felt and ever feel
That writhing impulse in me reel
When dawn’s first grayer hues begin to glow.
And if I had the craft to plan
Or will of Hades’ ferryman,
Old Charon with his single-minded row-
I would my obols gladly pay
To cross and capture all the spray
That on my flanks their breath would gracious blow.
But when my skiff a dry spell pricks,
My love, my oracle, my Styx
Will float me and I’ll, inspiration, know.
Then greater urge will brim and spill
When her soft hands take hold my quill
To dip it in her inkwell’s overflow.


The Death of Vikings

We trade, so have no honored graves,
Our war groomed beards for dollar shaves,
The longboat and Minoan axe
For heated seats and Cracker Jacks.
We used to feast on half-baked beef
But care more now for whiter teeth.
The mead hall stout was drink of choice,
Now Miller Lite when we rejoice.
In death, though pill prolonged, we’ll share
The lesser made Valhalla there.


Eulogy for a Mug

And such is life, as all will crash and break.
No pieces gathered then could make you whole,
Nor mend the broken body to the soul.
A newer form will change’d carcass take
And off the petal, yellow pollen, rake.
This fated scene, well out of our control,
Sees one to shine, another lethal dole.
And you, again, my musing thirst won’t slake.
Nor will I watch, with pensive eyes, the sun
In morning glory bathe your dervish steam.
But here, till doomsday, rest this chilly grave
And think on our loquacious verses spun.
You and the saints, within this yard, will dream
Of contributions, to your masters, gave.


Craig Daniel Koon was born in the Rust Belt of Northeastern Ohio in 1976 and has studied Writing and Humanities at Hiram College but never persisted in getting a degree which he tells himself is an antiquated ideal. He is troubled by the effects of Modernity on the current era and desires a return to simplicity in life and humility in thought. He stubbornly resists the tidal wave of technological luxury and is one of those sticks in the mud who believes poetry should be of a versified nature. He now enjoys a fine career of opening boxes all day long and writes poetry and prose at his leisure. His verse has been published in Trinicaria and The Road Not Taken.

NOTE TO READERS: If you enjoyed this poem or other content, please consider making a donation to the Society of Classical Poets.

The Society of Classical Poets does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or commentary.

CODEC Stories:

One Response

  1. NeoOvid33

    You have some decent verse, though it seems they might be a touch deep for someone like myself. I think the mug one is probably the best in spite of its rough start. Truth be told, I love the ending about the grave! The muse one is good in the part about splashing on the flanks. I like that part too. The viking one is just, true. Thank you for sharing.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

Captcha loading...

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.