How is it possible to
have writers block?
I’ve been trying to
stop the words for
years. Nasty, insidious
things.
Oh I closed my mind,
but they bribed the
doorman. More like
I’m in the elevator
and words want
to talk. “How’s
yer day?”, they
ask. I’m jabbing
L, repeatedly.
Then <>
.
The mind's a needle that draws a thread:<br></br>the body, knotted in the head,<br></br>secured by axons to its guide.<br></br>They dart through fibers woven tight<br></br>and restless seek the other side<br></br>of veils they've fashioned on their travels.<br></br><br></br>As they cross paths, they bind and tangle,<br></br>and jockey for the perfect angle<br></br>to sew a stitch of their design<br></br>on a sheet of endless space and time;<br></br>but when the thread cuts free at last, <br></br>the needlepoint’s all that remains:<br></br>the fabric of the veil unravels.<br></br>
SLOW RENGA Respond with #haiku using the suggested first lines & start each haiku with the same first lines below: DISSONANCE… or LISTENING TO RAIN… Post haiku in comments, enjoy mulling over the first line and considering your options at different points during your day. Look forward to reading your haiku and seeing where these lines take you. #Writing#poetry#creativity#wellbeing#write#writingcommunity#amwriting#poem#writer
The best of life is left unlived:<br></br>the mass of moments absent mind,<br></br>explosions over in an instant<br></br>that leave a trace of warmth behind.<br></br>An afterimage of<em> la petite mort</em>,<br></br>the comfort of oblivious sleep;<br></br>the edges of experience blur<br></br>and hint at blisses we can’t keep.<br></br><br></br>The best parts lie just out of grasp,<br></br>we tell ourselves; we keep content<br></br>to live beyond the reach of joy<br></br>until our lives are fully spent.<br></br><br></br>These fleeting things that sight can’t bear,<br></br>these haunting ghosts of ecstasy,<br></br>leave deep lacunas lingering<br></br>in yet-unwritten history.<br></br>They leave the dreams of coming days<br></br>dyed in inverted afterglows:<br></br>the ache for something yet to be,<br></br>a secret glee that no-one knows.<br></br><br></br>So this, it seems, is pleasure’s form: <br></br>a blip upon the radar screen.<br></br>Chased with dauntless vigor, <br></br>but hardly ever seen.<br></br>
Hold callus in your hand.
Catch abrasions on knees.
Prepare skin for laceration.
When it comes, cradle it.
Gaping wounds don’t appear
overnight. Reassure it, aside
from the callous of the world,
it will always have a home
with you, as it weeps.