Promise of Gentle Rains

Let APRIL herald poetic renewal.

Yes, dear reader, I detect a scent of rain in the promise of poetic spring. May unseen rivulets feed your subterranean wells, while zephyr breezes stir the groves of the muses by the chortling brooks of freshening verse. A gentle yet insistent voice whispers to your slumbering soul:

Wake up, hearken, the hour of Poetry draws near. . .

That moment must come to disturb the poetically complacent and lyrically-deficient minions of data-driven banality. Beware. The Muse does not play. She brings storms; poetically pregnant storm-clouds break their waters when the lightning hits.
Poetry gathers now, in rising force: rivulets swell, overflow, and join the inexorable flood. But you are safe: you have flood insurance. Such silliness as poetic verse does not concern you in the least. You have greater battles to wage and more meaningful prizes to win. Still, the rain is increasing. Wow, it is starting to really come down hard now. Maybe you should not have bought the riverside property . . . this is getting serious fast. As the poems flow to torrents the Muse sharpens her verse in the lifeboat while your foundations are battered, eroded, then suddenly swept away. Knowing what lies ahead, she pushes off from the riverbank, confident despite the quickening current. You lose your footing and suddenly the riverbank caves in as you say goodbye to solid ground.

You float— you fight to stay above the rapids in the lyrical flood. Be warned, oh unpoetic reader; the Muse does not rescue. She slays. Now the river overflows its banks, now all streams seek the sea. You cling to the jetsam of unlyrical life, borne upon the raging current toward the Muse. She stands just ahead, sword upraised, upon the rock of Poetry at the brink, where the rushing waters plunge over the precipice. You call to her:

HELP ! Don’t let me go over the edge— save me!

But the muse only smiles. You scorned her wisdom—and now the poetic Judgment has caught you unaware. You are borne along, the roar of the approaching cataract growing louder . . .

MUSE ! Have mercy— pull me out of my unpoetic predicament!

There she is, glittering blade raised, the last refuge before your impending demise. A sudden hope flashes: you are about to pass close enough to the rock on which she stands to grab her ankles. You glimpse the bright sandal straps criss-crossing slender calves just below the hem of her luminous robe. You reach and cling to her ankles in a last-ditch desperate grip. Swift her blade descends, severing both your useless hands below the wrist. You are aware of your fingers, contracting reflexively for a moment. They float a few seconds, then disappear in dark waters, warm blood pumping into the cold current. You are carried relentlessly, unstoppably, over the cascading precipice of the waterfall.

Your final vision is of the Muse, above you, smiling beatifically as you fall to your data-driven death on the jagged rocks in the churning pool hundreds of feet below.

Yes, oh connected reader, She does not play. Poetry knows where you LIVE and poetry can TAKE you OUT. Call upon the Muse before your day of calamity! Buy yourself a life-vest, learn to swim, read an anthology, write a haiku or something, I implore you…