I’ve got nothing to say,
but that’s OK,
maybe again tomorrow.
I’ve no new ideas,
observations or fears,
no places I plan to go.
I’ve got coffee to drink,
a place to think,
but my thoughts a definite no-show.
So I’ll sit and just wait,
it’s never too late,
something will come I know.
With the sun now bright,
I see the light,
words now starting to flow.
My poem’s now done,
it’s silly but fun,
my face’s now all aglow.
So good morning to you,
and whatever you do,
do it with vigor and gusto.
How many colors have you seen?
How many shades in between?
How many seconds till the day is through?
How many more before the day is new?
How many questions must I ask?
How many answers to complete the task?
How many times can I persist?
How many times can I resist?
How many redundancies before I’m done.
How many more was it than one?
How many poems must I write?
How many days will I see night?
Persistence is good, most would say,
but it can sometime get in the way.
Nothing’s gained banging your head on the wall.
But for the headaches and that’s all.
Please excuse me for this poems’ short length.
It seems finding things is not my strength.
I had started a poem and it was great.
But I lost it and it’s getting really late.
But I know the importance of writing every day,
especially when there’s nothing to say.
How will you know anything if you don’t try?
Nothing’s ever answered without asking why.
I tried to find my poem but failed miserably.
But it’ll turn up, just you wait and see.
It may not be great when done and that’s O.K.
I’ll just try again, each and every day.
There once an old dude,
who was quite crude,
the town folk thought him rude.
After many a year in love he fell,
his flame however said “go to hell”.
His desires she’d never quell.
A stormy winter slowly passed by.
Accustomed to rejection, the dude wasn’t shy.
And persistent he was to always ask why.
The spring finally came,
his flame stayed the same,
himself the dude thought to blame.
The summer surely hot,
the dude surely not,
his cool long since shot.
Autumn’s bluster in the air,
his flame did flicker, he did flare.
The time had tempered each with care.
With a Christmas snow soon to arrive,
fire and ice made water to dive.
His flame’s heart thawed and their love did thrive.
In this time of “writer’s block”,
I stare blankly at paper and clock.
With jumbled prose I try to think,
should life be guided by pen and ink?
Does a rhyme decide a story’s path?
Can a re-verse save us from the wrath?
The day is young; there are things to do,
but the sky’s gray with a snowy hue.
The air is cold, I’ll assume,
my spirit’s locked within a room.
Doors will open if I choose.
When all’s lost there’s none to lose.
Persistence colors the choices we make.
Is persistence for persistence sake?
Do we persist simply to win?
If direction’s unclear should we begin?
Like life, love, thought and art,
questions unanswered are the start.
Life ticks forward with us or without.
Thoughts will be shared without a doubt.
Art will be made with all the thoughts had.
And love makes life happy but also sad.
Dilemma’s obscure visions true.
A vision obscures my dilemma new.
I’m seeking an end to what’s now fraught.
The past’s the lesson of what’s been taught.
And like life, love, thought and art,
ends shade poetic an open heart.