Writer’s Block

My dying blue irises on the window sill
valiantly standing tall in the wind
lasted barely four days
criss-cross the masking tape on the window
vanishing strings…ideas are born but they flee into the night
not yet, sleep has to wait
till words imprint themselves on this page
I wonder if a crystal blue rose
could hold the drizzle of an entire day
too much to hold my sorrow born of
clouds gathering in the horizon

please, please
while thought is still coherent
I hope to do this
write a profound poem on everything
action
this is all a front
for something ulterior, something I wouldn’t dream
of admitting to,
I am waiting with these words
even when I vowed I shouldn’t, decided not to
now for want of resolve, I write this litany of nothingness

the tinkle of a million imaginary glass bells in the wind
romance is dead; I watched it die and wept its passing
but more for myself, my
bonafide efforts to orchestrate something out of
nothing as the pretentious wind come knocking
bittersweet,
long ago I left my city of lights but that was then
nothingness…just here and now
as twilight shadows flicker on the barren page
the frosty moon laughs mockingly
I think … we think
the poem and I
agree it is time to stop

4.30.97