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Posts Tagged ‘writer’s block’

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He says she’s over the hill,

that she’s dancing

with entropy

toward the valley below

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but she hears the call

of flickers, and the chitter

of squirrels,

and she sees ahead

.

lush meadows, tall trees,

and moss-covered stones

on the path

by a sapphire river.

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There, she’ll follow the scent

of her own deep roots

to a range of mountains,

their tops hidden

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in the subtleties he missed

between the lines

on her face

when e’er she smiled.

.

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(c)  2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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Your muse didn’t run away,

she came to visit mine today.

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I watched them climb the cedar tree

to drink their mountain berry tea,

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and as the sky turned into rain

I watched them climb back down again.

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They danced until their feet were dry –

and then I heard them call goodbye,

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and now my muse has gone away –

it seems she fled with yours today.

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When they arrive, please send her home

to change this verse into a poem.

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(c) 1994, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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From 1994; dedicated to anyone else who has ever suffered from writer’s block! 

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clipboard poem b

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Fresh paper

on the old clipboard

new gel pens

with blue ink

ready to cook up a poem

waiting for my muse.

.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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It’s waiting –

blank notebook paper

on my clipboard,

the kind I’ve always used,

college ruled

with a red line down the margin.

My pen is made

from recycled plastic

with blue gel ink

and feels good between my fingers.

Remember those leaky fountain pens

we had in grade school

that we filled from a bottle?

My favorite ink was peacock blue.

One Christmas my mom

gave me a ball point “quill” pen

with a fluffy pink feather plume

and matching ink.

Holding it I felt like Emily Dickinson,

a fountain of words,

inspiration and opinion,

countless pink poems of love

and injustice

followed by a stunned poem

when Kennedy was shot

two days after my 17th birthday.

Then came poems of indignation

about the war in Vietnam

and what was wrong with long hair,

mini-skirts and bare feet?

Ah, but I digress.

 .

Now my muse

puts a finger to his lips

and tells me hush,

this is just non-poetic prose

after all.

He came to me

in a dream one night

arms folded sternly across his chest.

I wanted to pull them open,

wrap them around me,

kiss his face,

but he turned away.

I woke to find my pen

filled with invisible ink.

Can he see this,

or are these words

just feathery plumes of dust?

 .

© 2013, 2016 Betty Hayes Albright

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(re-post)

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Writer’s block, what spell is this

brutal paper-pen abyss?

 .

Calliope is prone to fainting

locked inside a still-life painting,

 .

she won’t stand for insipidity

nor a hint of crass cupidity.

 .

Sometimes free association

brings the muse back from vacation

 .

for just one sublime creation

or countless couplets of desperation.

 .

Like the simile that shines

it’s survival of the fittest lines.

 .

(Oops – mind the meter, it will matter,

just avoid the sing-song patter.)

 .

Alas, my muse is on the lam,

still no strength to breach the dam.

 .

Writer’s block – that dreaded curse,

for poets there is nothing verse.

 .

© 2016  Betty Hayes Albright

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It’s waiting –

blank notebook paper

on my clipboard,

the kind I’ve always used,

college ruled

with a red line down the margin.

My pen is made

from recycled plastic

with blue gel ink

and feels good between my fingers.

Remember those leaky fountain pens

we had in grade school

that we filled from a bottle?

My favorite ink was peacock blue.

One Christmas my mom

gave me a ball point “quill” pen

with a fluffy pink feather plume

and matching ink.

Holding it I felt like Emily Dickinson,

a fountain of words,

inspiration and opinion,

countless pink poems of love

and injustice

followed by a stunned poem

when Kennedy was shot

two days after my 17th birthday.

Then came poems of indignation

about the war in Vietnam

and what was wrong with long hair,

mini-skirts and bare feet?

Ah, but I digress.

 .

Now my muse

puts a finger to his lips

and tells me hush,

this is just non-poetic prose

after all.

He came to me

in a dream one night

arms folded sternly across his chest.

I wanted to pull them open,

wrap them around me,

kiss his face,

but he turned away.

I woke to find my pen

filled with invisible ink.

Can anyone even see this,

or are my words

just another

rising plume of dust?

 .

© 2013, 2016 Betty Hayes Albright

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(An old one from 1978.  Writer’s block plagued me then – and now.)

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Sipping tea and vacant,

I nod and doze

but waken in a hot-charged light

that shatters night

and sizzles down

the window panes.

Ions glow,

ignite the sleeping coals

beyond the hearth.

 .

What’s that?  my children ask.

 It’s just a storm,  I whisper.

Hush!

 .

Moments rumble

up my spine,

sparkle through my eyelids.

Heat crackles,

marrow bursts,

the floor shakes,

and then –

 .

My kingdom for a pen!

I roar,

stumbling, leaping

for the door

as virgin words

begin to pour –

now all I need is time.

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© 1978, 2012 Betty Hayes Albright

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