Doldrums

Doldrums How shall I put to rest another day? Write lines of verse, or paragraphs? I seek desperately to clear my mind, Yet the words and emotions flood through, Compelling wakefulness though fatigue Bids me rest my driven bulk. My poet's muse rattles her cup Upon the bars of my mind's cage, The key to unlock the gates Already turning in the rusty lock. Stanzas flow from my fingertips, Black specks upon the pristine white. Eyes half shaded by heavy lids, I squint myopic at the shimmering screen. I need not see, as my fingers touch the keys With wills of their own, unbidden by me. Words form with each tick, tick, tick... Like Time's irreverent countdown to 1:00 a.m. Without object or desire, the poem matures... Like a ham basted in its own juices Hanging lifeless in hickory smoke. Obscure, even vapid at times, It insists upon imminent birth. But it is doomed to be stillborn. Such a time poets name "writers' block" - A fearful excursion towards oblivion. Devoid of rhyme or reason, This is the writers' Bermuda Triangle, Where verses creak derelict And stagnation rules the fetid air. Oh to break these barren bonds What means would I resort? Can't sell my soul to a demon As it is not mine to sell. Won't alter my mind with "cheap tricks" Like alcohol, pot, acid or coke. I must of needs plow on through, Creating my own path of identity. Clutch to my bosom the emptiness, And release the pain being held in. For emotions repressed Are the ultimate constipation. I type as I think... penning words By ones, twos, threes... Each adding its savory spice To the burgeoning artifact. So even in this doldrum state A poem can my heart create. 12-17-2001 Written December 17th, 2001 © on Dec 16 2001 07:33 PM PST, Heinz Scheuenstuhl    0 • 10