The nine muses personified. My tribute to Greek Mythology, greatest of all ancient legends. Read, and worship. (Them, not me. Please.)

Nine They Were

I. Calliope

From eloquent entreaty she does write
of chilled perspectives and great enterprise,
first person scores of gentle artistry,
and fortunate accounts of florid chance.
In fantods do her precious heros fall,
in sunlight do they rise to feud again;
for every recollection scions slight,
she gains an ounce of ponderous quietude.

Through windy hindrance beauty raises voice,
as if her permanence can always strike
the wax of stylus long since left to set,
to beg a recognition of her flesh.
Humanity's kismet she'll valorize;
of great adventure, tablets will preserve
so generations after minds subsist
we'll weigh the pith of mindful mistresses.

II. Clio

Concerning love or death she has no claim;
instead she seeks to prize beguiling ghosts
as pets for parched adornment of years past
to handle as a wave of tide desists.
Proclaimer of the depths that do deluge,
she sets forth scrolls of ancient sapience
to teach the seasons patterns of rebirth
so children can experience milieu.

Our inclination does repeat itself
in irony that man always forgets;
responsibility falls short again
to test his story one more time, it seems.
Her solace lies with mensing episodes -
contingencies of detail find her stout,
a sturdy wall of facts and figurines
that never cease to wonder at the world.

III. Erato

Her lovely hands work miracles today,
of love, of lust, of Cupid's strange disease;
she knows not of the cure for maladies
but only bears the fruit of its reason.
Time's matter draws flesh and blood aside
and casts its shadow with effort undescribed,
but she forgoes remoras of this kind
with more of gravity to spread her seed.

Of mimicry and lyres men do mix
fond memories of mothers' willing breasts,
for that first instance of sincerity
arrests itself to nature's tender care.
The maidens writing verse with trembling hands
turn craving eyes toward her sheltered lair
as if her orders, tumbled out with ease,
could subjugate the stubborn heart of life.

IV. Euterpe

A flute sings softly toward the rising sun;
it calls all nature to its wandering tune
and feeds them as its mistress breaks off joy
to share with poverty, her guest today.
Should her dear message reach the ears of fiends,
its ardor would subdue their devilry,
but since her lyrics have not yet been sung
pathetic fallacy will have to wait.

She dreads a house with pleasure unevolved,
and messages returned from somewhere whence
an unknown melody rings with hubris,
a harmony that has no point or place.
Demanding nothing save an audience,
her pleasure is derived from secrecy,
for subsequently, frozen minds are warmed
by silent permutations of pure mirth.

V. Melpomene

She holds a tragic mask with simple pride,
adorned by melancholy quirks of fate;
the knife reflects uncertain slants of light
that hide, pretending some amount of grief.
Holding shares of a priori rue
sorely needed to regard the years,
depression rears its ugly head to show
conversant knowledge of the paradox.

However fair and bright a child is,
death still remains to brush away the fame,
and when obscurity ensconces them
her footfalls echo merciless with song.
A choir sings for milk-white angels, yes;
yet throbbing consciousness cannot reduce
the thud of laquered cothurnus she wears,
so cadences of hope recede like life.

VI. Polyhymnia

If Zeus is in his heaven, all is well,
according to the many songs she sings;
a finger to her lips will silence vows
that pensive meditation can endure.
Pure water flows in ribbons of her hymn,
and dance she does, with youthful interest -
the droplets follow suit with supple toes,
elastic steps with graceful grand intent.

The tired superstitions men exhaust
express a kind facade of eloquence,
and sorghum seeds do not reduce her need
for choral cadences and yawning trills.
The dawn of pleasantry becomes involved
with sacred yearnings for her requiem,
for epitaphs could not have spoken truth,
if not for dreams she readily perceives.

VII. Terpsichore

From her the sirens learned their potent words,
that angels fall to human lengths to hear;
while seated at her lyre freedom reigns
and minds are clear with each eternal pluck.
Bereft of glorious sights, blind men do see
by her delightful laugh of levity
that trickles through the days and nights with glee,
stirs animals and human infantry.

When rhyme and rhythm have abandoned ire,
the drama of humanity insists
on struggling to survive in these hard times,
spurred only by her will to circulate.
Our blood and wine run thick with her perfume,
illusions of regarded piety;
whatever fearful news our tears do bring
are countered by her never-ceasing song.

VIII. Thalia

The scene is painted white with rural calm,
no gilded ages remedied with gems;
a common envy lies in comedy,
with her licentious use of humorous ends.
Free roaming as the dust of flowery prose,
she takes repose with shephards' golden grass
and whispers dulcet lullabies toward
the world, her dream, the frayed reality.

Her creamy disposition speaks of hope,
and rivals rays of sun for fresh essence;
the air of mountain lull brings fond release,
escaping through the cracks of her disguise.
Delights of life yield soft security
where she lays buttered words of courtesy
to welcome saints and angels as they come
through gates to share in the festivities.

IX. Urania

An opportunity was gained when she
revealed her globe of heavenly refrain;
a universe of timely openings
to stave the passage normally delayed.
She watches, nightly, upward and away
for signs of worldly thoughts for men to share,
and not the shameful theories of sin
that ginger chrisms rub away like dirt.

Embroidered gently, swaying cloth does fall
where mortal eyes, unable, cannot see
the decadence of man's curtailed ascent
and fading, spiraling, down to his nadir.
Another eon lost, another gained,
she worships only sky and spilled black night,
for all of our good intentions, still we dread
the final change from stardust into death.

Yeah, this took me about five hours to write. I think my effort deserves some feedback, no?