Early morning
thoughts awake,
ether soaring
celestial oblivion,
poem shaping
rhythmic clouds
bass bin booming,
picking mercury
from the firmament,
toil and tumble
relentless empyrean.
In the dim light
of winter’s dusk,
elusive words
weave and duck,
playful sprites
he might write,
cast meaning
in the dark alight
but mischief,
at arm’s length,
an impish thief,
a cache of terms
hidden grief,
a poet’s stumped,
thoughts aplenty
on a blank page,
words empty.

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2 thoughts on “WORDS

    • Thanks, Jeanne. I read a few stories about writer’s block recently. It’s something we’ve all experienced and occasionally, I’ve found I don’t write poetry to order. If I do, I don’t like it.

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