Today, it seems, I have nothing to say,
so I’ll be remarkably terse.
I never thought I’d see the day
when my mind produced no verse.
I’ve heard of a thing called Writer’s Block,
but not in a million years
did I think I would sit and watch the clock,
waiting for words to appear.
I’ve been in this chair for fourteen days!
My wife brings me food and drink.
Perhaps today I will think of some ways
to apply my poetic ink
to pages, still blank and staring at me,
taunting and making sport
of my wretched inability
to stand in that glorious court
of sages and poets and masters of verse
renowned for greatness and skill,
who overcame this vicious curse
and with determined will
filled all their pages with heavenly rhyme,
O how I wish to be there!
But here I sit, biding my time,
waiting, in growing despair.
The Spring of my life has come and gone.
I’m facing an arid summer.
If truth be told, this conclusion I’ve drawn:
I should have been a plumber!
Sonoran Desert Writer 