Silent Conversations

I ought to write a silly poem
To pick my spirits up.
Just a bit of fun to show him
Something’s still in wits’ cup.

I promised not to go silent
Without his prodding on.
Within my grief, be defiant –
See what memories spawn.

Perhaps I am not yet ready
To do anything silly.
My thoughts, churning in an eddy,
Will not joke tranquilly.

But I do smile everyday
When he visits my mind.
He seems ready to come and play,
If I am so inclined.

I must fill in his dialogue
With words he may have said.
Is he my mental analog
Bouncing within my head?

But there’s his charm, there’s his question,
And there’s his certainty.
There to start another bull session
And fire my circuitry.

Coded Message

There are those who write code
To make instructions clear.
Others’ messages are slowed,
Crypted in wording queer.

I have written in both
With varying success.
Computers fine in troth,
But people in distress.

Knowing what to explain
May help my clarity
And tell my roving brain,
“Combat perversity.”

But rarely I set out
When scribbling in verse
Knowing what I will spout –
By rule, rhyme drives the hearse.

Rhyme for Reason

I do not think I could write
A poem without a rhyme.
My brain would say, "It's not right,
With nothing to mark the time."

Waiting for My Car

I think in little bites
'Though I want a whole meal.
In order to scale heights,
I find one step that's real.

I will often set off
With hardly any plan.
Give myself rope enough
To wander where I can.

Being willing to start
Has lead me many places.
Adventure, part by part,
Builds in trail of my paces.

I wrote above one line
Not knowing what was next.
Perhaps it's not so fine,
But now I have this text.

Mentally Stalled

I  am caught in other distractions, no thought complete,
So my avid readers (if any) this week are victims of the heat.
Return again next week if you would subject yourself to more,
And we both may see what from my mind does pour.

When the Hand is Ready But the Mind is Not

When The Hand Is Ready But The Mind Is Not
When the hand is ready but the mind is not,
Not a word can you write nor a thought can you jot.
And the hand hangs there, paused, ready to jump,
But without the mind's command, the whole body sits like a lump.

But the words don't come and the hand is dumb and still,
Sitting, balanced. On the very summit, but unable to roll down the hill.
Oh, please, send some words, a thought, to relieve this poor hand,
Who is posed hopelessly where the mind's conviction made him stand.

The Writer's Block

It was a dark and stormy night when the wannabe author sat down to his task.  Let's see, Setting – Character – Conflict - ... - Action.

Yeah, right – Action.  Push that writer's block to the side and jump on the golden brick road to the adventure ahead.  He had been here before and probably has a much chance of success (not any) as the last hundred times he roosted here to hatch any idea.  More likely to lay another rotten egg.

Where was his story to tell?  On the other side of that big, old block obviously.  When life hands you a boulder, make rubble.  Chip away at the block and find its weak point.  Insert dynamite, add a spark, and stand back to admire the fireworks of destruction.

What a disappointment it will be if he does not find a story on the other side of that block. Perhaps the block is his story.

Who built this obstacle anyway?  Who set it in his path to fame, glory, or at least a story?

You did, you idiot, he tells himself.  You have not been chipping away at it; you have layered on to it.  Doodled graffiti on its surface and tossed more refuse atop to fuse it evermore firmly in place.

Now that you consider it, there is a certain majesty to its annoying ugliness. Maybe even some beautiful splatters in irritating juxtaposition to its scars of torturous mazes you have explored, never finding a way through.

The author marvels at his lifetime's creation, that inexpressible pile of crud that is his alone. It is not enough, but it is mine.