Tag Archives: excuses for not writing

The Meeting Place (for Dverse Poets)

The Meeting Place

What are you waiting for––
divine inspiration?
Do you think Shakespeare waited for his muse?
And if your muse came,
would you even recognize her?
Will she wear long white flowing robes?
Will she play a lute or will your voice
be her instrument?
Will she whisper in your ear or speak to you
though your mind?
And will she be beautiful or will that even matter?
As you age will your muse age with you
or is she perpetually young?
And what about wisdom?
Will it be your own acquired wisdom or hers
that will make your words cut like a knife
though the soft texture of days,
that will give them purpose
when those around you
fail and fall
into the magnetic cloud
of forgetfulness or boredom?
What if as you sit there
waiting for your muse,
watching reality TV
or doing crossword puzzles,
your muse is waiting for you
in the keys of your computer
or in your pen point?
What if she has been lolling all these years
in the pages
of that lined notebook
sitting empty on your shelf?
I keep telling you
that every day I see her
pass behind you
as you pine for her,
always looking
in the opposite
direction.

 

For dVerse Poets–a poem about a muse.

Substitutions

 

Substitutions

An open window, an open door
from a block away or more,
may leak a song whose melody
brings forth a long-lost memory.

Its strains may bring a prompt detection
of an overlooked reflection—
that abrupt awareness of
those substitutes for human love.

A cat, a dog, a garden full
of beauty that exerts its pull—
diversions that can take the place
of a well-loved absent face.

So we fill in each empty spot
where each loved-one, alas, is not,
making do with what what’s around—
those near-distractions that we’ve found.

Prompts for today are substitute, abrupt, reflect and music.

I spent all day trying to fight off a migraine. Soon after I woke up I lost half my vision—could only seen the right side of my head by turning my head sideways.  I took a couple of caffeine pills, hoping that it was the beginning of a migraine—fearing the alternative more. My vision eventually came back but a nagging little headache persisted so I took more caffeine, tried to eat around 3 but had terrible indigestion and more of a headache. Finally, I took an Extra-Strength Tylenol along with a Coke, which I knew would give me arm and/or leg cramps, but it was preferable to a full-strength migraine. Went down to the hammock with an audible book so I could close my eyes, Morrie jumped up on my lap and Diego hung his head over the side of the hammock seeking my other hand. I pulled my cowl neck over my head to avoid their stinky bodies and breaths (bath-time is in order) and finally, blessedly, fell asleep. Aroused by a phone call from a good friend, after hanging up, I was seized by a massive foot cramp, got up and stamped it out and came up to the house where the pups and kitties were glad to finally have their meal a few hours late. Not the best day in the world but it brings me to the reason for telling you my woes, other than your sympathy—that being the reason why I haven’t yet written and published my poem for the day. So, finally, at 8 in the evening, here it is.

 

Trading Vices

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Trading Vices

An inherited tendency that rendered him pugnacious
was a quality that caused his friends to label him audacious,
but luckily this acting out, though maddening, was fugacious,
because they’d found his surly mood was frequently contagious.

In between his pouty moods, he had a great ambition
to write great works and stun the world with his erudition.
He’d be a star. The Pulitzer would be his life’s great crowning.
Sadly, his words rarely occasioned moods other than frowning.

In the end he turned to a lifestyle less vivacious
than the pen. Alas, he chose a comfort more herbaceous.
His solace was that healing weed that smoothed out disappointments
and made action barely possible—let alone appointments.

He stopped visiting taverns to hang out with his mates.
Did not return their phone calls and cancelled dinner dates.
His doors, once open, stayed sealed tight with vapors only seeping
under their cracks to hint at the company he was keeping.

He ceased to be pugnacious, erudite or anything.
Dust blanketed computer keys. He heard his cellphone ring
as friends all tried to reach him but I fear it was in vain.
They tried a dozen times before not calling him again.

Sometimes, cures are worse than the thing that they are curing.
To have their crusty friend back would make bad moods worth enduring,

but, alas, it was too late. In life it is allowed
to make our own decisions. Thus, he vanished in a cloud.

The prompt words today are fugacious (good grief!) open, star, ambition and write.

Let There be Light

Sometimes, to get to that authentic part of ourselves where poetry resides, we have to illuminate some dark corners.

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Let There Be Light


My mind is a growling dog.
While I stew and fuss,
fulfilling lists,
she jumps the screen door,
beckoning.
Rude me, to turn my back
on the only playmate
who wants to play
the same games I do
every day, every hour,
because I fear that initial
plodding through silt
page after page
in search of the stream
of words.

Sometimes boredom
yawns so wide
that I have to enter it,
to wander its inner closet
where for decades
only cobwebs
have stirred.
In some dark corner
where I spank the dog
or search the bedside table drawers
of a lover called out at midnight,
I find the river’s source,
but then
the phone
rings and I’m off
gathering crumbs from a forest path,
leaving lost children
stranded in their own story.

Stray puppies—I collect every one,
wild orange funnel flowers
and guava
washed in an afternoon kitchen
just before the invasion
of five o’clock sunlight.
All of them I carry back
to hidden places
to rub against each other
and ignite
into the language of this place
where life goes in,
plays dress-up,
but emerges
nude,
like poetry.

 

If you’ve been following me for four years, you’ve seen this one before. The prompt word today was authentic.

NaPoWriMo 2016 Day 11

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Bite

The gardener sprays the water wide
in an arc from side to side.
The old dog moves out of its path.
No one knows her held-in wrath

for all who hold the power but she––
the door for which she has no key,
the young dog taking power away,
as she grows weaker every day.

The universe is never kind
to those caught in the crushing grind
of power eroding day by day.
Surrender is the price we pay.

Commanding, shy, flamboyant, staid––
everyone falls to the blade.
For all, it is the price that’s paid–
by tyrant and by serving maid.

What has happened to stay my hand?
I’ve read the words both fine and grand
that other poets have been writing
and envy has commenced its biting.

What I write is merely babble.
It’s obvious I only dabble.
These words I have so easily found.
surely cannot be profound.

The gardener sprays the water wide
in an arc from side to side,
in a move so sure and quick,
quenching inspiration’s wick.

http://www.napowrimo.net/day-eleven-3/

Excuses, Excuses

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Excuses, excuses

Posts that wander here and yon
and just go on and on and on
telling why they haven’t “writ?”
Just grab the theme and write of it!
I’m sure that you have much to say,
I look for it day after day.
But please desist your bitch and moan
lest you wind up here alone!
Daily excuses make us yawn.
If you don’t stop, we’ll all be gone!!!

I must admit that I’ve been that blogger who complains about the Daily Prompt.  I’m not talking about the occasional healthy complaint here, but the very few bloggers I’ve found (of course, not you) who seem to have established a blog mainly as a grounds of complaint about why they can’t write!.

The Prompt: Yawn! What bores you? https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/yawn/

Change, Change, Change

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Change, Change, Change

The main change I wanted to happen when I started writing a blog was to dedicate myself to writing every day––to make writing top priority. That has happened over the past 19 months, when I have written every single day, no matter what.  The biggest change came about because I started writing first thing in the morning rather than putting writing off until I found a convenient time. Now I put other things off in favor of writing.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Singular Sensation.” If one experience or life change results from you writing your blog, what would you like it to be?

The War of the Words (Love and War)

 The War of the Words

The words packed tight within my mind
seek the empty page.
They fly like hummingbirds and hawks
escaping from their cage.
But when all my empty places
I seek to fill again,
too many words rush in at once,
creating such a din
that nothing can be made of them.
I cannot restore order
in these alien syllables
that flood across my border.

I did not think these previous lines.
They just crept up on me.
I place them here upon the page
and thereby set them free.
They have no place within my head
where I had plans to write
a valentine or love poem.
Instead, they spar and fight.
One trying to beat the others
to the front line of my mind.
Love words elbowing their way
through “sensitive” and “kind.”

So shyness steps on anger’s toes
and sloth runs out of steam
trying to reclaim the place
where words like it must dream.
I no longer know the purpose
that I set out upon
I fear the mood is broken–
my concentration gone.
The thought that any love poem
will come is now absurd.
Ten minutes ago I was in love,
but now I have been cured!!

The Prompt: Write an Ode to something or someone you love. Bonus points for poetry.

Happy Valentine’s Day!!!!!

NaPoWriMo Day 14: The Meeting Place

The Meeting Place

What are you waiting for––
divine inspiration?
Do you think Shakespeare waited for his muse?
And if your muse came,
would you even recognize her?
Will she wear long white flowing robes?
Will she play a lute or will your voice
be her instrument?
Will she whisper in your ear or speak to you
though your mind?
And will she be beautiful or will that even matter?
As you age will your muse age with you
or is she perpetually young?
And what about wisdom?
Will it be your own acquired wisdom or hers
that will make your words cut like a knife
though the soft texture of days,
that will give them purpose
when those around you
fail and fall
into the magnetic cloud
of forgetfulness or boredom?
What if as you sit there
waiting for your muse,
watching reality TV
or doing crossword puzzles,
your muse is waiting for you
in the keys of your computer
or in your pen point?
What if she has been lolling all these years
in the pages
of that lined notebook
sitting empty on your shelf?
I keep telling you
that every day I see her
pass behind you
as you pine for her,
always looking
in the opposite
direction.

 

The prompt today was to write a poem in which every sentence, except for the last one, is in the form of a question.