WRITER'S BLOCK
I GRAB MY PEN
AND THEN?
I SEARCH MY BRAIN
IN VAIN.
The ideas that presented itself clearly at 3 a.m.
has now vanished within a convoluted mayhem.
Jumbled together
are thoughts about the weather
(the thunder and lightning
with brilliant flashes frightening)
the car, my work, my JOB,
my deceased Uncle Bob,
the music I must play,
the song whose melody won’t go away
(and conversely,
one perversely
that won’t stay),
my mother,
her brother, another
nun, no fun, just one
more death besides Sister Bernie –
people who have gone to the Inferny;
my friends Marian and Tim,
both gone. Music evoked a whim,
but it passed.
Flabbergasted,
I muse at the confuse
that most follow
thoughtless hollow.
I look inside for my thought.
For a moment it seems to be caught
on the edge of remembrance.
Then it’s gone. Remonstrance
with myself is to no avail.
Patience is a frail
gift that I sorely lack.
I must take back
all I thought and fussed about my head,
For it is said,
“All things come to him who waits.”
As my frustration abates,
I find that I have filled
almost two pages and fairly willed
myself into a poem.
My cluttered dome
has found a way around
The temporary shock of writer’s block.