Writer: A Block
The writer sits extending his wrists,
And feelings and thought do mix;
Or, the writer walks through wooded fair,
The wind whipping through hair:
The ideas tumble, reeking of trouble,
And furrows the brow from ear to ear;
Family and friends do hide from him,
To pass the writeless day.
The thoughts are there, yet in a fog,
The joyless task today,
Where others won’t tread, to me my home
All lost in mindless stare:
This place without work, it soothes my soul,
Comfort in a knowing loss;
The wordless pages my senses please,
This is where I’m at!
The antenna seems to miss the call
These words of mine fulfill,
The page, my liege, they must be best,
Because they flow from you!
Still all I want (please, oh Muse, grant
Just one complete poem, just one!)
And to write you just deny,
Assist me to desist.
[Based on Robert Burns’ Winter: A Dirge (1910)]
The Wild Teenager
Wild teen and your mild growth spurt,
Hid in the tumultuous, busy school,
Untouched your honeyed blossoms grew,
Unseen your young fingers fool:
No roving bully will crush you here,
No busy body provokes a tear.
By Nature’s self in flesh arrayed,
She asks you to shun the wanting eye,
And sat here in the great oak’s shade,
And heard the bubbling brook go by;
Thus murmuring the summer goes,
Your days without rest fly.
Filled with the energy that must decay,
I grieve to see your future doom;
They fell asleep – neither were they more awake,
The children that from Eden bloom;
Unpitying time, and Age’s power
Shall leave no visage of this youth.
From early morning the sun rose
This is from where you came:
If from nothing, you’ve nothing to lose,
For at death you are the same;
The flash between is but an hour
Recapturing the light of a teen.
[Based on The Wild Honey Suckle by Philip Freneau (1786)]