In the Dying Petals of the Poet’s Flower


poet sleeping

Past the tick-tick-tocking of the midnight hour,
Wrapped in sweat-stained cotton sheets,
Robbed of sleep and feeling sour
Like a muffled drum sounding nothing beats –
In the dying petals of the poet’s flower.

This syrup sleep removes the pain,
While dreams remain beyond my reach.
A whiskey slumber subdues the brain
While my toss-n-turn reveals a breach,
As time grinds on just the same.

I rise to write the poet’s dribble
And gorge upon liters of stale red wine.
Behold, my words, a bastard’s scribble!
Writ upon the passage of borrowed time.
Each tick, each tock, from my life is nibbled

I cannot rest while my muse is clanging
Inside my head a poor man’s verse,
Nor can I stop the incessant banging
As my thirst for libations meets an empty purse!
These words are ripe for a morning hanging.

Upon the tick-tick-tocking of the morning hour,
Sweet sleep descends upon my brow.
Within my bed I hide and cower;
An ink-less pen is a horseless plough –
In the dying petals of the poet’s flower.

The Writer’s Struggle


A writer never sleeps at night:
his dreams are all revisions –
when dark descends he’s lost within 
a hopeless indecision.

In love or rage the empty page 
remains a voiceless vision –
The words won’t come until he’s sprung 
from inspiration’s prison!

Frustrated sage, the pen is raised…
but nothing is forthcoming;
the ink he spills refuses still 
to transcend his shortcomings.

A prayer is tossed, but still he’s lost 
and soon the sun will rise –
He tries again, then drops his pen,
and finally shuts his eyes!

In full stagnation, his imagination 
has given up the quest –
He soon resigns to fate’s design
and lays down for a rest.

In spent repose, with both eyes closed
the taunting muse descends,
And whispers clear within his ear
“Get up! Begin again!”

And so it goes, the author knows:
it never gets much lighter!
The battle waged to fill a page 
consumes most every writer.

Walking Alone


 

 

 

 

Walking alone in the cool gray light of morning,
silently stalking my elusive thoughts
and not quite caring should I find them or not,
it suddenly occurs to me that
morning is not a time for thoughts,
but rather a time for feeling.

Walking alone in the cool gray light of morning,
silently stalking my elusive feelings
and not quite caring should I find them or not,
it suddenly occurs to me that
morning is not a time for feeling,
but rather a time for sleeping.

Sleep-walking alone in the cool gray light of morning,
silently stalking neither my thoughts or my feelings,
and not quite caring should I ever
think or feel again,
it suddenly occurs to me that
it’s not morning at all,
and this cool gray light is but an illusion,
keeping me away from my thoughts and feelings.