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.