I am Not his Muse


I am not his muse, and I can never be.

No time, circumstance or chance will let me.


After all he gives and gets, loves, regrets,

he remains my teacher and I, the taker.

He is anarchist and challenging creator,

who advocates the belief I have no need

to be seen and posed as a poetical parody.

I raise a reluctant pen, listening to his elation.

Spoken softly in spite of my self-deprecation,

questioning whether to make my verse heard.


I am not his muse, and I can never be.

No time, circumstance or chance will ever let me.



© Katy Megan Hughes 2016

Immortal Soliloquy

Immortal Soliloquy

They say that the worst kind of grieving

is when the lost antagonist is still alive,

whether sudden as a spring swallow’s dive

or a slow wintered bewilderment in the leaving.

Buried, burnt or butchered cruelly out of heart

that did endure with vexation and veneration,

fear of being alone or guilt of being causation

of their final yield to the wind that blows love apart.


But do we still wish to live in a solitary moratorium,

coveting our fervorous hearts in a slate stone mirth?


©  Katypoetess 2016




Las Vegas


Violation and depravity,

within isolation of this valley,

an extravagant medicine to take.


We pace the boulevard,

with no moral compass, neither

north or south in strip-sleazed haze.


Rolling violent dice

of drunken incomprehension,

morning sirens sing out my sin.


but the more I kneel before you,

the more you raise me to my feet


What happens with us, stays with us.




©  Katypoetess 2016

Christmas Eve


Hearts heave a relief

of homecoming.

Anticipation smiles

on silent beds

of every young child.

Wreaths of activity

yearning for a peace

that never arrives.


Following evening star

in slipshod time

of glittered hope

and gifted uncertainty

that reflects

in each other’s eyes.


©  Katypoetess 2015







The head of a rose

dry and broken

like a soft word spoken

which was not heard.


The head of a rose

petals close together

intense love held forever

which was not seen.


The head of a rose

leaves are tattered

a life lies scattered

which was not known. 


 ©   Katypoetess 2015