K is for Kalliope


Transliterated from old Greek,

Eldest and leader of the Muse

Sisters, Muse of song and

Public articulation—in other

Words, speech-delivery


She had a son, an artful maker,

Too—he was killed; and his

Mother took his remains to

Enshrine them on Lesbos, an

Ancient isle, which we might

Visit today


Were she to sing in our

Parlance and with our take

On life’s matters:


I inspire your song and speech

And go unrecognized


Most no longer believe that

Mortal skills come from a sacred



I might sing again, though first

Would be the labor in mourning

For all I have lost


My boy, who was murdered

For envy or rage (I care not

Which) and whose grave

Molders in an island pit bereft

Of laurel leaves


Orpheus, as well my son,

Whose sanctioned journey into

Hell yet lost him his wife in

Petty business of Hades and

The underworld’s rule (I

Respect them not)—his life was

Left to sorrow like mine


And your interest? Why would

Gods matter to you?  All

Divinity is mitigated in belief,

Mostly unexpressed, that you

Shall save yourselves—




You will need us, still