As long as there is
Writers block I’ll have something
To not write about
As long as there is
Writers block I’ll have something
To not write about
I woke today in a fog.
But autumn’s now in view.
There’ll be more days of sky high temps,
though fortunately just a few.
My body’s burned with a patchwork tan,
the grass a patchwork of brown.
Smiles await bluer skies,
but for now I’ve still a frown.
Perhaps today I’ll write a poem,
better than those before.
I used to say that every day,
but now I’m not so sure.
Like the seasons, time does change,
creativity comes and goes.
Inspiration’s all around,
but negativity grows and grows.
I need a cool crisp morning,
with leaf of red and gold.
Though summers can be wonderful,
this one’s getting old.
Maybe it’s just a fantasy,
thinking words will find their way.
Maybe the fantasy’s over,
of being joyous every day.
Peering up from my lap,
I see the fog starting to clear.
Though my paper is still blank,
I know a story’s near.
My eyes now wide open,
my pencil’s sharp and new.
Optimistically I scribble a word,
the clouds now but few.
One word turns to another,
a third leads to a line.
Verses soon will follow,
and again the day is mine.
I’m glad this patchwork is over.
And I’m sure that you are too.
I’m thankful for your time today,
my inspiration being you.
Like a boat without a dock,
it’s another week of writer’s block.
I drift around aimlessly,
tossed about on a wordless sea.
The sun still rises every day.
But all the thought’s gone astray.
The tides do rise and again will fall.
It’s sink or swim because that’s all.
Equipped with pen and a pad,
afloat I’ll stay and won’t be sad.
The pages will fill, soaked in sweat.
The ink will dry with no regret.
The sands of time will shift once more.
My anchor will drop on a distant shore.
The vistas there will all be new.
Perspectives’ will change, as they do.
Horizons are always just ahead.
The breeze will lead to where we’re led.
I can’t complain, this journey’s been good.
So I’ll keep thrashing as we should.
It’s been a month or maybe more,
it could be less but I’m not sure.
Perspective’s fuzzy, mind’s a blank,
creativity’s done and mood sank.
At least today I wrote a thing,
I hoped that some joy it’d bring.
I wasn’t wrong though it’s not great,
reflecting on these times of late.
Perhaps tomorrow will improve;
I’ll jump out of bed in the groove.
I’ll run downstairs to greet the sun,
damn this chill, let’s awake the fun.
Outside my window perched in a tree
Tis a winged demon that caws at me
At me it caws and caws all day
Till darkness consumes then caws go away
Tis then a candle lit, awaiting peace
Creative spark await release
The hourly chime hourly chides
This spark within creatively hides
Searching I pace in this tiny room
From shadow to shadow returning to gloom
Going in circles around in a square
Till wearily I slump back into my chair
Through random lacy limbs I spy the moon
With gentle breezes the patterns I swoon
Patterns swooning dance on dingy walls
The net surrounds and the demon calls
Consciousness concedes, silence relieves
In the dark the dark the mind believes
Rest and wait or rise and scream
Choices few at the edge of a dream
Wax drippings lapping pages bled
Of serpentine spine and heavy head
Blackness cloaks the demons night
Their quills aplenty shade the light
Demon, oh demon please let me be
Yet still they tap, tapping for me
Tap tap tapping on my foggy pane
Tap, tap tapping with no refrain
Without refrain demons tap in kind
Tapping demons tap, tapping my mind
Is this tapping, tapping to remind?
Or is it tapping to seek and find?
Oh demon cloaked with hidden face
To take from you is my disgrace
Your gifts adored left on my sill
Yet to rest on your back I am still
To be only still is reverse
Dive or fall, a lover’s curse
To soar or sink is to immerse
The spirit wishes to guide the verse
This spirit and I of common goal
Each to rise from the hole
One to fly, one to scratch and claw
Each may fall, one to caw, caw, caw
Our bond’s made to find a link
If to trade my soul I wish to think
I wish to think another’s ink
Of golden quills and wine to drink
In gilded glass I wish to wink
Then step away until I shrink
Till all is gone with a blink
But for the ink, I wish to think
I think I think, I think I see
I think I see light shines on me
Sight and sound now distortion free
The path’s clear toward tranquility
If to be a final rest, now’s to be the time
Drifting in an open mind is to be sublime
Or if to rise and most joyfully find
I’ve awakened as a different kind
To be warm of heart and cool of mind
Forward moving and never behind
Of filigree hands to align and chime
Tis then the taps return, tapping in time
Taps on the window from arms of the past
To embrace their grip the future’s cast
When cracks appear in my shield of glazing
The demon swoops for the dawns hazing
With inky beak and beating wings
Caw, caw, caw the demon sings
They dance upon the empty pages
Quills ablaze their fire rages
Then morning breaks the lidded seal
Illuminating all thought real
Am I to be taken or to consume?
Or wake to sunlight returning to gloom
Betwixt the shadows exposed by the light
Tis demons craft conjured last night
With nary a blotch nor stroke askew
Flawless leaf scribed by I know not who
I dare not share these words unknown
Through my window they have flown
The prize of demons cawing in a tree
Thus return I must this gift given me
Today’s poem’s a mixed bag of thought,
overwhelmed with input this poet fraught.
Barraged by beginnings, none’s caught,
words forged honesty’s wrought.
Hours fly, seconds’ drag, a minute sought.
Dreaming recollections, time’s bought.
Feelings unchanged, thinking’s naught.
Patience perseveres, love has taught.
The bloom has gone from my fragrant rose.
Will it return, no one knows.
The thorns are still there, in my side.
The bleeding continues yet the words now hide.
The trellis climbed, my energy’s spent.
Yet each day I wake in search of a scent.
The ground’s now closer, I taste the dirt.
My feelings strong but now they hurt.
Perhaps a tree I’ll now befriend.
Trees live long, I’ll miss their end.
My pen will rest as I branch out.
I’ll climb again but poetry’s in doubt.
The switch broke, lights went out.
Now I sit alone in doubt.
Morning comes, eyes stay shut.
The feeling’s gone in my gut.
Hours pass with no refrain.
Only mush fills my brain.
My body’s weak, pain is strong.
Life is short, death is long.
Lips parched, breathing slows.
Numbness reminds of fingers and toes.
Into the light my soul roams.
Blood consumes yesterday’s poems.
Silence heard with no heartbeat.
Time knows no defeat.
If tomorrow I shall see,
a better person I will be.
If a poet when I rise,
this world anew before my eyes.
Nothing lost is nothing gained,
only regrets leave us stained.
Second chances are often rare.
Today’s success is meant to share.
The past gone, ends unknown,
cherish all you have grown.
There’ll be no daily sonnet today.
Thought has wandered and gone astray.
Nimble quill won’t dance on parchment bare,
seducing lonely on table near.
The well is dry from which I must drink.
Chair is empty were journeys to think.
No inky tears shed, blotted or smeared.
No blackened hands bloodied and feared.
Letters scrambled all over my mind.
Their chosen order I cannot find.
Brittle wax puddle proves candles death.
The darkness swallows my daylights breath.
Blindness shackles a masked and heavy head.
I shrink into my unwanted bed.
Heart and soul content for tomorrow.
When ink, I hope, once more will flow
My mind is blank and I don’t know why.
I watched the sun rise in the sky.
I’ve got my pencil and a pad.
The day’s bright and temp’s not bad.
The news is filled with lots of stuff.
Some of it’s scary but most just fluff.
Life is good, I can’t complain.
I feel great, I have no pain.
I’ve things to do and the list is long.
Or do nothing but that feels wrong.
I’m not too bothered when I can’t write.
I might tomorrow if not tonight.
Just a start is usually all I need,
a couple of words to plant the seed.
Then the wheels turn and the page is filled.
Good or bad, again I’m thrilled.
So I’ll keep you posted as to my progress.
Hopefully I’ll have success.
But if not, that too is OK.
I’ll say good morning some other way.
I sit at the kitchen table waiting for thoughts to come.
So far none’s forthcoming; I’m hoping there’ll be some.
Time is quickly passing as I stare off into space.
If wasting time were a sport I know I’d win the race.
But words don’t run on tracks and thoughts know no time.
But if patience is a virtue then waiting is no crime.
Procrastination is a different thing, results will find away.
It’s a choice that we make to give away our say.
Yesterdays’ may be gone but our actions will remain.
Mistakes made along the way will leave a lasting stain.
We wake each day to change, thinking everything’s the same.
But time moves only forward and tomorrows’ we cannot tame.
We’ll take our deepest breath and dive in head first.
We try to make the biggest splash to satisfy our thirst.
The volumes fill up fast, their content is our own.
The good we see in others reflects on how we’ve grown.
The time is getting late and I’m fading fast.
Why must the future wait while sleeping off the past?
So I’ll wait another day for something new to write.
The winter blues are passing and mornings looking bright.
Optimism’s on the rise though heights often chill.
Pessimism is an easy fall but the bottom is no thrill.
Windows will soon be open and fresh starts will appear.
And those webs in the attic just need the spring to clear.
The colors of morning fill sleepy eyes.
A blank page awaits today’s sunrise.
Dreams are fading with a new day’s start.
Reality awakens with love in my heart.
Thoughts of you fill my scrambled mind.
Words are brewing but they’re yet to find.
Passion’s tricky to express in rhyme.
Though volumes written for you in time.
On the edges of town unseen
Rents are low, space unclean
Rooms stacked high, all eyes to sky
Standing tall to die or lie
Looking down to sit it out
Hearing only another’s shout
Sleep beckons if you dare
Wasting away today’s nightmare
Hallways linger, stairs to climb
The roof’s the answer just one time
Seconds count days made
Weeks blind night’s shade
Darkness eases the morning light
A choice to choose to pick a fight
Ideas rhyme yet make no sense
Timely babble of now and whence
Mind’s clear but for fog
This tale needs an epilogue
The prologue screams for its end
Borrowed time free to lend
Random words slapped in place
Precise meaning slaps my face
Conclusions rushed making time
All indivisible in our prime
Neighbors wave in disgust
Tidal changes of love and lust
The future awaits, now once more
Now to only find the door
My writing’s waning
Want’s waxing, this writer’s block
I’m finding taxing
Stories are written every day.
Lips move, people say.
Eyes still seen when shut tight.
Ears and nose always alight.
The mind knows how to think.
Hands made to push the ink.
Yet words of late are not my friend.
Perhaps today this to will end.
Now that I’ve written
Thoroughly of writers block
Nothing’s left to write
After a week of
constipation even a
little word feels good
I refuse to write
anything at all until
this writers block ends!
Writers block is good.
When I want to write about
I need a formula to know when best to write.
I write randomly most every day and night.
Rarely is it very good but sometimes it’s all right.
In search of inspiration everywhere I go.
Some hit in an instant, some never show.
Moods always vary as the poems reflect.
The good and bad, I think are quite easy to detect.
Sometime when feeling good I’ve nothing good to write.
That ticks me off assuring a terrible night.
But when feeling down writing helps me feel all right.
Yet the time is spent either way,
though always writing of yesterday.
Where’s the balance, it’s there I’ll go.
So if anybody knows, please let me know.
Nearing the pit of the pendulums’ path
Forces of nature care not of their wrath
The weight of the world pivots within
Knows not when to stop or where to begin
The highs never reaching a stable peak
These highs too high to which I seek
Delves of darkness seem never to end
Rises resisted rapidly descend
Familiar patterns now drawn in time
Thus manifested in delusional rhyme
With feathered hand to soar and blind
To my ravenous return in stillness of mind
Due to insecurity
This life of mine cannot be free
Brain’s cluttered with negative stuff
This uphill charge – I’ve had enough
Words all mean different things
Too many choices a sentence brings
Paragraphs explode exponentially
Random letters pour down on me
The sun comes out, I work indoors
On my day off it rains for sure
All my pencils say “NO” today
They too are tired of writing gray
My mind now wanders to parts unknown
Surrounded by friends, feeling alone
With aging body and child’s mind
A place to fit I’ve yet to find
I’m sorry for wasting your precious time
I guess it best to end this rhyme