If you give a muse a waffle...

Einstein has now left the building.  He was a fun guest for a fortnight, was he not?  But my brain, which is by no means the same variety of cauliflower as Albert's, has a fickle appetite. 

Which brings us to waffles.  No, really, it does.  Anyone knows that good waffles have the power to reform a person's point of view.  But only the Wise Ones, those venerable souls robed in floury aprons of splendor, know that the Belgian variety, when the planets align and the vanilla is just right, possess powers that surpass even advanced rhetoric and bribery.  Particularly when fresh whipped cream is invoked. 

Deep down inside, you know I speak truth. 

So it makes perfect sense that when it comes to the navigational drift of The Beehive, much depends upon breakfast.

Just so, this particular morning, Justin rather brilliantly buried his waffles under the last of yesterday's pears -- a basket of Boscs stewed into a state of ecstacy with cardamom, ginger and little maple syrup.  I could not bear letting those pears forever fade from my existence without my fond adieu, so I stole a hefty forkful.  (You would have done the same.)  And whilst I was in the midst of all that mellow fruitfulness, my muses woke from their semi-permanent nap to mutter a flash of something dimly mimicking inspiration. 

In short, they declared that a dozen Einsteinisms were pleasant enough as an appetizer or tailgating sort of snack, but what they now desire is a whole platter of words more akin to those delectable pears atop Justin's waffles.  Something aromatic and spicy with a little crunch underneath.  Something poetic. 

Even drowsy muses have power to enthuse, apparently.  Because I now have a Novemberish sort of rumbling to host a Poetry Ceilidh here on the Beehive next week. 

(A ceilidh, you ask?  It's a Gaelic word that means party -- but a particular sort of party.  One where everyone present contributes to the entertainment.  Scots are not exactly known for being wallflowers.) 

So here's the plan, aspiring Beehive Bards.  I shall post several poems next week.  And you?  Well, just pick a poem you like, or better yet, pen one yourself.  I may just do a bit of both. 

I'll post a Mr. Linky late Friday night.  Then you can post a poem on your blog and link back to it here, or if you aren't a bloggity bloggerson, you can post your poems here in the comments. 

And if your pencil balks, maybe your muses just need a happy breakfast.

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In the meantime, while your pears are stewing perhaps, here's a bit of verbal glory to appease the rumbling --Sarah Clarkson, whose blog is a fine blend of brains and beauty, offers up praise in her gorgeous, poetic prose.  What a gift this young lady has and is.