With Valentine’s Day approaching, we are not going to have some sappy love poem. In fact, we are going very far away from love altogether in this post. And to be even more forthright, this poem features tonight strictly at the win of a toss of the coin.
The following poem is likely a formatting nightmare soon to make me pull my hair from its roots. If so, it will be much like the writing.
While I often will doze off, leaving a long scribble as the pencil leaves the paper, when awaken, I finish whatever thought was interrupted my annoying need for sleep. This poem is not an example of that.
Instead, Mantra took her time. I finished a stanza and drew an absolute blank. I charted it, turned the page and wrote something else in a matter of minutes. Off to sleep. Next morning, picked up the pencil, turned to the page, ready to write. Nada. Mantra was sleeping in, the wench.
That night, I thought, surely it will flow onto the paper without a problem. Mantra was being her usual impish self. I wrote something completely different… as in not even the same genre. Next morning, I did not give Mantra a chance. I went out and skipped it altogether.
When I got home, I looked through my book for what would be tonight’s poem. I found the one I wanted, but had that nagging… I turned to the unfinished poem… and did not read it. Instead, I wrote the last line. With no further ado, I give you Writer’s Block.
The tendrils hang and sway in the breeze.
Heart-shaped leaves veined with yellow
Glisten in the early morning dew.
A magpie cheeps and squawks a gory tale
Of squirrely thieves raiding her nested fare,
And a lonely sunbeam stabs through the glass
To puddle on the hand-waxed floor.
The morning stands still in defiance
Of the ticking clock in the hall, with
The sun anchored by the lonely beam.
Her skirt swings wide, making a shadow
Where the light puddled on the planks.
She draws up the sash and pulls back the drape
Before she heads out the back door.
Gathering water in the battered old can
She reaches up to give the ivy a drink.
Disturbed from his slumber, a lizard
Crawls out of the pot in search of a ray
To dry his drenched, green skin.
She fills the bird bath in hopes
Of a visit from the bluebirds and robins.
She fetches a steaming mug and her book
And perches on the swing on the porch.
Distracted by the magpie, she tries,
But can’t seem to write, her thoughts
And memories and hopes for the day,
Or recall the comforting dream
Of the quaint, deep forest cabin.
She remembers the place from a story
Her grandfather told of courtship
So tender between young hearts.
The image all hazy is fanned forever
Away by the beating of tiny wings,
As the sparrows circle the bath.
Creativity lost, she returns to her chores.
Was I wrong to give Mantra the finger? Does this happen to you? What do you do when your muse decides to be reassigned to a new project?