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.