Something to Say

If I could think of something
Important to say
I would say it here
In some clever turn of phrase
An insight
With a sound eloquent and wise
Something to help us understand
What it means
To be human

If I could think of something
Beautiful to write
Those words would go here
Words to touch the heart with a sigh
Passionately descriptive
Painting a scene
To make lovers know
Why they love

If I could think of something
Full of wit and whimsy
It would go right here
Perhaps something
About a Scouse mouse in a blouse
A tongue twisting tale
To raise a smile
And elicit a chuckle

But as I stare blankly
At the blank page
It stares back
Laughing at me, it says,
“Open your eyes.
You’ve just written

For dVerse Open Link Night week 88

Waiting for a Train

Have you ever really, really wanted to write a poem, but you just couldn’t come up with something that you felt like writing about? ┬áThat’s how I’ve been the last couple of days.

Words rattle around my brain

Bouncing off my mental walls

Nothing sticking, it all falls

Into puddles of ink rain


Like a bottle of pop shaken

Pressure builds of thoughts

Ideas on the page caught

But shape they haven’t taken


The words come formless as the foam

Not a phrase to hang a poem upon

Like melting ice, too soon they’re gone

Too far my mind continues to roam


With ticket held in eager hands

I await the next creative train

To ease the literary strain

When words will flow like desert sands


I’m having a hard time coming up with something to write tonight, so I guess I’ll post this old poem from 2006 when I was fighting a nasty case of writer’s block. –


Where are the words?

They’re lost


They’ve jumped like lemmings from my mind

Into a chasm of loss

Once upon a time they would come

I didn’t have to think

They came

Leaping from my pen

Ink jewels

In blue and black

As if they weren’t mine at all

But channeled

From some eloquent spirit

Longing to be heard

Where are you now spirit?


Whatever name best fits you

You fed me words once

Now I’m starving

Craving the language that once nourished me


Were you pushed away?

Sickened by my filthy cynicism?

My reality?

My day by day drudgery?


“There is a rot on us all”

I let the rot grow over me

And my muse withered with it


Can I resurrect you?

If I raise my pen once more

Will you return?

Like a soldier fresh from the front

With countless tales to tell

To make me feel vital

To have energy

Crackling with the electricity of creation


That sweet remembered taste

It is out there

Waiting for the train to pass

Drop me off, muse

I think this

Is my stop