By Antonio da Fabriano II (Italian, active 1451-1489) (Walters Art Museum: Home page Info about artwork) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Shhh! I'm straining to hear
(I must admit, to you
this is my greatest fear)
thundering, rolling silence
boulders unwedged
cracking from a dry spell
not able to find the words to tell
nor a drop in the hollow inkwell
a writers ramblings
that chokingly clutter
floods of thoughts, ideas,
those clever lines I mutter
all taken for granted!
Perhaps there's just nothing
more needing to be said,
(it never before
felt like such a chore)
It used to come
like a heartbeats drum
Absent, broken, chaotic ideas
now dam
and make me look dumb!
A river of words flows by,
a waterfall of passion spills out,
taken by the current inspiration
that usually carries me
Dry and jammed
lodged with self-immolated Styx,
a busy beavers idle work,
where idleness eddies may lurk
I am told not to worry
it will be back and come in torrent
Can you hear the watery voice?
Comprehend its murky messages?
Now, I should confess
I am responsible for this lazy mess
(it's not as though I haven't tried
"I wrote a little today," I lied.)
Instead sterile white paper mirroring thoughts
Letters, symbols, pixels,
words that don’t go anywhere
stuck in virtuous silence
waiting for the stream to come...
Composed 8/22/14.
