Writing Poppycock With Homage to the Nonsense Poetry Muse

The nine muses of classical mythology were sister goddesses who provided humans with inspiration and insight into the arts, sciences and philosophy.

Storytellers, astronomers, dancers, musicians, poets, dramatists and others in creative or skilled practical pursuits looked to one or more of them for divine assistance in their various activities.

Though this is not generally known, there is at least one other muse who is named Silliusnincompoopia who is rarely depicted in classical art and literary tradition. Her contemporaries either shunned or disparaged her, for good reason. She was often called just plain "Silly".

I know about this because she has followed me relentlessly through life, inspiring my written nonsense, and artistic incompetence, often in the form of doggerel poems. Silly is always lurking, even when I try to be serious.

To this muse I dedicate the following poem, in the hope that she will leave me alone for awhile.

Sillyusnincompoopia does not appear in the portrait above. She is off somewhere being silly, while the other nine sisters are being very serious about all of their artistic pursuits at the temple of Apollo.

(Preferably to be read aloud in a pouring rain.)

Poppycock, and all that rot, taps on a window of my brain.
Then, in time, the nonsense rhyme requests permission to remain.
Now, at the door, it taps some more and walks in uninvited.
I question, "Who said, 'Come on in'," realizing ... I did.

The Muse of Nonsense Poetry rarely gets a mention,
But her insane, insistent tone demands my prompt attention.
She enters my brain and is bound to remain with snippets of unscripted ode.
Once deep inside, she can't be denied, demanding a written mode.

Then I find, within my mind, I am to doggerel inclined, growing stubborn habits.
The ebb and flow will come and go, then multiply like rabbits.
Becoming a lyric which rhymes without reason, a web of idle thoughts,
Switches up meters and rhythms and mode like a weaving of macrame knots.

Nagging to be written down, the claptrap will remain.
Inventing a verse, getting much worse and progressively more inane.

Idle bunkum, trivial thoughts, becoming more confused,
Demand some polished ordering to make sure they're perused
By readers who may come by chance, and linger for awhile,
Finding motive to read this junk and briefly crack a smile.

I might support lost causes, and do it all in rhyme,
Speak out for homeless hermit crabs and do it all the time.
It might seem sheer insanity, or something even worse,
But somehow seems more sensible to put it into verse.

When nonsense rhyme or rhythm, gets stuck within my head,
I'm jotting verses all day long, until I go to bed.
And yes, I'll blame the Nonsense Muse, she has to have her say.
I'm chosen to convey her words. (All nonsense, by the way.)

Some say my life is wasted, but nonsense is my lot.
The gift for writing writing epic tales, is not the one I got.
Scribbling on philosophy would turn out sounding phony,
I script the musings of a muse whose forte is baloney.