the muse apprentice guild
--expanding the canon into the 21st century




12WORKS
BY ROCHELLE HOPE MEHR

FAITH

Seeing something as real
Before it is.
Enduring a doubting scorn
Without becoming
Forlorn.

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TROGLODYTE

Frozen in time
Stalagmite
Unable to divine
Its source
Obsessed with the depths
Unable to confess
The love
From above

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THE MOURN

All's fair in love and war?

I could ambush, I could deceive, even kill
In the name of all that's good.
For war is a means to an end.

But love, love is pure.
An end unto itself.
Any lie told in the name of love
Lies low
And deftly, daftly,
In the small, quiet hour of the morn
Murders love.

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THE MEANING OF CONSCIOUSNESS

I dabble in doubt.
I doubt my dabbles.
Doubt is what keeps me free.
Doubt is what keeps me me.
I doubt, therefore I am.

I am.

Therefore I doubt.

The moment I am certain

I am dead.

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OUTSIDE

We duck into the movies.
Seal the duct tape
Round our windows.
Trying to escape the harsh light
Of reality.

The sun will sear
The celluloid.
We will remember the virtue in fighting evil.
We will remove the tape
And step outside.

================

NO PIONEER, I

I'm on a lonely exploration
Of inner space
Trying to find the right molecule
To fix my broken brain.
There's not much glory in it
And it doesn't pay too well.
But if I ever learn how
To transcend my limitation
I will be happy
To find myself
With my feet on earth.
It takes noble souls to attain noble goals.
I am broke
And just waiting for the green valley's
Burgeoning embrace.

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OM

Is there nothing left to write?
No animus?
No angst?
No abounding symphony
Of histrionic
Pang(s)tellar
Nobler
Battles still to come?
All I want is peace
All I want is
Om...

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REGRET

Don't fall away from me now.
We are so close
And yet I feel you turning into yourself.

Not in a good way.
This is not self-actualization
But the schism of a soul.

The sect of Feeling,
The sect of Reason -
You are so torn in two

That your face turns blue
As you try to swallow the air -
The hot air you used to spew

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DOUBLE NEGATIVE

Wonderful things happen
Just when you expect them
Just when the (k)not
Has finally choked off
All resistance

Today I lit a candle
The flame rimmed my pain
It soared and scoured me
I could not speak

I used to write of nothing
Before I learned to speak

================

DEAR POET

Congratulations!
Your work is worthless.
Your rant is not worth a grant.

Why do you care?
Starving artists exhibit the most flair.
They cater to no constituency

Save the solitary soul.
Unfettered by the skeins of expediency
They rise

To universality

================

THIS CAN'T BE A POEM

It bears too much resemblance to reality
It lacks the diffusion used in photography
to scatter light to soften the shadows

The shadows lengthen
I try to run
To keep one step ahead

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IN

The real outsider can never get in.
He feels the tug of convention
reeling him in
but he resists
the tote
and starts to float.

The real outsider can never have his day.
The closer he gets to sunrise
The farther the horizon recedes.

Away he is.
Away he will stay.
Afloat upon his bumptious boat.

Seeking the horizon.
The new day.
The heyday

Of his in-the-sun stay.
When the promised fun
Is supposed to begin.

And he can shed his chagrin.
And fit in.