I haven’t been writing lately.
I tried to write about the sunrise
The colorful haze, pink, yellow, purple,
I saw while I drank early morning coffee
and stared dreamily at the sky.
I felt I could do it no justice,
I just didn’t have the words
to describe the spectacle of morning light.
I tried to write about the daybreak dew
fragile on the morning’s shimmering grass.
I wanted to describe the bees that hummed
and drank nectar from the flowers
that bequeathed their sweetness.
I couldn’t write
when I saw those flowers,
bending on their thick green stems,
blossoming with silky petals.
I closed my eyes and smelled their
light and sweet,
but didn’t know how to describe it.
So I stopped writing.
I simply opened my eyes, ears, nose and mouth,
I heard the buzz,
felt the dew on the bottom of my feet,
smelled the honeyed fragrance, and
drank the nectar with the bees.
Last night I dreamt in poetry,
dreaming I was a writer,
an actual poet who could write at will.
Keys flying with words and stanzas,
the candle on my desk burning
with my ever present coffee cup
the one that says,
“Fuck off, I’m writing.”
I looked like a poet,
acted like a poet,
sounded like a poet,
at least in my dream.
And then I realized,
still in my dream,
that I only write about three things:
love found, love lost, and the sunrise.
I tussle with love found the most.
I find my love,
we fall in love,
we make love.
In these poems I dabble with erotica,
they drip with innuendo.
hearts that beat in unison.
Longing and lust illuminate these poems.
They are my best.
Then he leaves
or I leave
or we both decide to leave.
These poems are filled with sadness,
A tease that there may be
a chance for reconciliation,
or maybe not.
And then there is the sun.
An early morning writer,
I wake before the sun rises.
I am in awe of the beauty,
how the colors gently
unfold and grow,
how the pinks get pinker
the oranges more orangey,
and the sky illuminates.
It is a time of awe and wonder,
and I like to write about it.
As with all dreams,
I woke up with a start.
I vowed to branch out
and find new topics to write about,
other than love, loss, and the sun.
And then I sat at the keyboard,
coffee by my side,
and began to write.
This morning I sit,
inspirational coffee turning cold and bitter,
a few stray grounds nestled
in the bottom of the cup.
I write nonsense,
anything that comes to mind
hoping to turn it into something.
Today I don’t love words
or my writing.
Letter after letter
verse after verse
I struggle with the language,
my native tongue tangled into a tongue twister.
I don’t know what the secret is,
how sometimes my mind shuts tight
with a keyless Master Lock.
Other days the words leak out,
dripping without meaning or innuendo.
But among the embers of discarded words,
the ones that just don’t fit,
something has sparked
and I find myself,
writing about not writing.