Sitting here in my chair of reflection,
I seek the missing words,
those that found me yesterday,
coming so fast I did not
have time to capture them
before they were gone,
winging away like
I am the flower they feed upon,
the nectar for their
If I wait, they will return.
The page fills again.
My stories are carried
away on the wind.
it is not that i have nothing to write
it is that i have too much
i have not known where to begin
the words have appeared within like leaves in a sudden spring
the trees are full
thunder breaks the silence
the sky fills with pregnant clouds
i await the wind
Perhaps you are wondering, dear reader,
why this past week,
pages have remained empty
and I’ve had few words to spare.
The muse has been off wandering, dear reader,
the lost phrases to seek,
but you need not despair.
My mind succumbed not to laundering, dear reader,
for from dark recesses now do peek
a sentence here and there.
Writing is a kind of blundering, dear reader,
a constant tongue in cheek,
best tasted when shared.
So beware, dear reader, beware.
The muse has returned and reawakened.
Read on if you dare . . .
i have been remiss
let the cares of this life steal my bliss
lost in my impotent rage
i have forgotten to put pen to page
and so the without meets the within
and the words run in my soul again
for i know i am a better me
when i give in to my inner poetry
I have begun again.
For whatever reason the Muse needed a break.
Yet there is a rhythm to writing,
words on pages cast like leaves upon a flowing stream each day.
The wind blows.
The trees shake loose their offerings.
The water runs on,
carrying these lettered ships out into the silent sea.
There is no such thing as writer’s block.
It is a myth created by those who wish to cash in by making you feel inferior and by providing endless amounts of so-called expert advice to help you to overcome your fabricated problem.
When the inevitable winter comes,
remember that it is but a season.
Do not fight the cold or the call to hibernation.
Listen to the silence that comes when there are no words.
They will return to you like a throng of sparrows in the spring.