Writers’ Block, Writers’ Block

paper balls.jpg


Writers’ Block, Writers’ Block

Nothing to say again, nothing to say,
So I say all my nothing in hope of a spark –
And say and say it all twice, anyway.

I’ve had not a notion for many-a day,
I’m ser’ously thinking of quitting this lark:
I’ve nothing to say, again – nothing to say.

My thinking is lumpy, my twinkle is grey,
My meditive mantra’s an angst-laden bark –
I chant it and chant all twice, anyway.

I rummage my brain for a straggler or stray,
But the cupboard is bare and the tunnel is dark:
I’ve nothing to say, again, nothing to say.

I have to do something, I can’t sit and pray !
I somehow must mallet my impotent mark:
I hammer and hammer it twice, anyway !

But what can I do if the words will not play ?
The page is still empty – the meaning is stark:
I’ve nothing to say, again.  Nothing to say.
So shout it, and shout it out twice, anyway !

Cold Acquaintance

Me & My Shadow by Rosalyn Drexler


Cold Acquaintance

So, we meet once more, Mr Block,
You shrivelled, empty peapod of a man –
It seems that once again you’ve come my way,
And once you come, you always come to stay.

Why do you do it, Mr Block ?
Why must you stymie those who can ?
Why suck me, shrinking, sinking to your level ?,
You stinking and procrastinating devil !

Depressives talk of black, black pits
That swallow whole their lights and wits.
For me, it’s you who comes to mock:
The dull and silent Mr Block !

It seems you are my houseguest, Mr Block,
And now my clues won’t click, my thoughts won’t scan.
You turn my sense to suet, ken to curds –
I’d scream, if I could only find the words !

You’re all that I can think of, Mr Block,
You’ve stolen ev’ry thought and better plan.
I’ve nothing left to tell of, ’cept of you –
And that I’ve said before, and better too !

Whenever you are back in town,
My words dry up, my thoughts shut down.
How much I dread to your deathly knock,
The dry and dusty Mr Block !



Through a Dark Glassly

reflection of finger in a mirror
Photo by Jenna Hamra on Pexels.com


Through a Dark Glassly

I sit here so poised, just a-waiting to write,
Waiting for fresh inspiration;
And I sit and I wait for the flash and the light,
And the spark of the birth of creation.
But thoughts and ideas and visions I lack,
Just feeble attempts from a half-hearted hack,
I haven’t a notion that’s worthy a crack:
An impotent writer’s castration.

I sit here so poised, just a-waiting to write,
Waiting to fill up the hollow;
And I sit and I wait, but though try as I might,
I guess that I’ve nothing to follow.
My ev’ry polemic is written and done,
My anger is shouted, my wit had its fun,
My dreaming is dreamt and my grief seen the sun –

But ask me again come tomorrow.



Dry Rot

black ball point pen on white notebook
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Dry Rot

I have no dark and stormy night
To tell you of today,
I have no thoughts on changing light,
Or rhapsodies to birds in flight,
Or need to set the world to right,
Or clever words at play.
My pen is dry, my powder shot,
My musings down to diddly-squat,
I’ve written ev’rything I’ve got,
I’ve nothing left to say !

But say it still I shall, I must,
I will, despite a lack of thrust
And wearing out your patient trust.
I wallow in my nothingness
Until I’ve said it all.
And when I have – I know, I fear,
My chaff is trite and insincere.
It’s time to get well out of here,
Before I scrawl another mess
Upon another wall.

But never mind, I know my brain
And how it ebbs and floods.
I shall have things to write again
When westwards points the weathervane,
And dust is quenched in summer rain
That shoots the darling buds.
And all this time I go without,
There’s movement still within the drought
As seeds blow in and wait to sprout
To yield their crop of spuds.

I do not know the when or how
There grows some fruit upon the bough,
But hark, I hear a rumble now…
There’s water rising in the wells
To wash away this clot.
I sense their sound, their breath, their key,
The ground is trembling under me.
I know not what their form shall be,
But ballads, sonnets, villanelles –
I’ll write the bloody lot !



Summer Block

clear glass cup with fruits and water inside beside slice fruitas
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com


Summer Block

Ah, the lazy days of Summer:
Long and languid afternoons,
When cares are short and drinks are tall,
And lives are endless honeymoons.
So who would sweat on metric feet,
To try to pen a tricky rhyme ?
Just close the jotters, pencils down,
And let it go.  It’s not the time.

On such a scorching hummer
When our cares are short and drinks are tall,
And lives are endless honeymoons,
Then no-one thirsts for verse at all.
So let it go, it’s not the time –
Just close the jotters, pencils down.
Our brains would only overheat.
If assonance should raise a frown.

On long and languid afternoons,
Just who would sweat on metric feet
When no-one thirsts for verse at all ?
Our brains would only overheat.
Don’t try to pen a tricky rhyme
On such a scorching hummer.
No assonance should raise a frown
On the lazy days of Summer.