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poems of the week

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Writer's Block

What's this I hear about you hangin' out with the no-gooders on writer's
block?  Stay with them long enough and you will get hooked on linear thought.
You know, the creativity suppressant.
Now if I catch you out there again, I'm gonna have to turn you in.  I don't
know a whole lot like you that have come back from the big house, in the state
of mediocrity.  The few that come back have lapses of inequity and
conforminitis for years after they return to the creative way.
So you best to get home, you know, where the heart is.  There you will find
plenty of imagination and spiritual essence to feed upon.  I tell you this
because I love you.  Now, go on home, cause I don't NEVER
Ever want to see you on writer's block again.

John Riddick (c)

Writer's Block

I guess I'm in over my head...overwhelmed I grasp in desperation 
for any type of word to help bring me to that next line
Struggling I gasp for air trying to hold on for dear life
The constant flux of an unyielding tide flowing into a vortex
of verse

I remain in the eye of the storm seeking shelter from the steady 
stream of sentence
Hoping that it trickles down into a period of peacefulness
So many little time 

Now I maintain my liquid form feeling no need to further solidify
my hydrodynamic state of mind
I gather myself into the highest form of concentration with the
preparations to saturate any living object with my fluidity
Making my transition from potential to kinetic energy a reality

In the long run my speech is harder to dissolve than dry ice
Feeling the pressure building I'm waiting for even the slightest
drop of thought to drip down upon me
In over my head, overwhelmed I grasp in desperation for any 
word that can help bring me to that next line
Struggling for dear life...

Roderick Harmon (c)

Correction Fluid
The day brings paragraphs
to her fingertips.
Clean white sheets between rollers
... the bed remains unmade.

Her margins set by others.
Mind numbed by-lines that permit her
to hold down the DELETE key, long enough
... to inscribe another's choosing.

The millennia began at these keys,
pounding out the meaning of her inner being.
Yet, the turn of the century turned out to be
... one less writer sitting by the keyboard.

     Erase ... stop ... Colon

Restless digits fumble to unlock 
a frenzy of correctness.
Punctuated, ribbonless etchings in black &white
... often read by lips late into the night.

Grief, in C-A-P-I-T-A-L letters
frames her work station.
Mouthing the musing of an utter fool
... on Monogrammed stationery

She hits RETURN, to jump start a life
and BACK SPACE to a time
in her now inked-dried PERIOD 
... among the hidden words she rights        ____________________

     Comma ... stop ... Semi-colon   

a Parent (in parentheses) on carbonless paper.
This pathetic actor who slams the SPACE BAR
for another drink
... to drown the old silence, in a new way       (loudly)

she FAST-FORWARDS to her next role. 
pressing hard against the SHIFT-LOCK
yet, remains totally out of CONTROL 
... only the fantasies have become indelible

She knows the ribbon in the sky
spells destiny without her.
An index finger away from writing her life
... without Magic Marker

She PAGES DOWN quickly, as if
she can ESCAPE her own sentence...      > Structure < 

Saleem Abdal-Khaaliq (c) -

construction zone

i noticed
that i had reached
the dreaded
Writers Block
again, this time
with no detour
clearly marked
but (being the
i tend to prefer
that i am) i just
barrelled my way through
the Road Closed signs
and decided to ride
the unpaved trail
until i either
break down or
break through

Rose "BamBam" Cooper (c)

"Why I don't 'submit' my poetry"

"Why don't you send in your poetry?"
I often hear friends say.
"Your poetry is very good, 
and you should receive some pay."

Well, I thought about it. And came to my own conclusion,
After reading submission guidelines,
I was mired in total confusion.

Now, If I publish it MYSELF, 
does that mean that it's still new?
And when it comes to marketing,
Is that MY job to do?

Well it all gave me A headache,
When I tried to sort it out.
I'd rather just keep writing,
Than to send MY poetry out.

I can keep my illusions of grandeur,
without a battle being fought.
I won't have my work being judged by standards,
that OTHERS have been taught.

Besides, My writing is MY baby,
You may tell me that it's 'cute'.
But, I won't have someone else DRESSING it,
In what THEY deem an appropriate suit.

They can't see with MY mind's eye,
Or what's inside MY head.
So I think I'll file THIS one with the others,
And keep them to myself instead.

L.K. "Rose" Ford (c)
From "Pages from my mind"

When Two Poets Argue, Who Owns the Copyright?"

You never listen to me anymore
it's like I don't exist
I want you to open up to me
and still you just resist

It's not that easy for me you know
to know just what I'm feeling
it's not something I'm used to
being emotionally revealing

So how come you don't dress up the way
you did when we were dating?
and hardly do the things I like
you said were so intriguing?

Do you even know how I spend my day
with these our kids I'm raising?
at nights they wonder where you've gone
and sit at windows gazing

I'm working hard so we can eat
could it be that you're complaining?
It feels you don't appreciate the
the strides that I am gaining

I smelled perfume inside the car
just tell me if you're cheating
If once, then too a thousand no's
and please, I hate repeating

You know my sweet, I've seen of late
that all we do is bicker
it makes me think that love we had
has gone from flame to flicker

I know I love you, though
I just need reassuring
And I love you with all my heart
my space I'm just defending

I'm sick of this let's touch and kiss
each do our part to mend
we'll do the things it seems we missed
to fall in love again!

Walt Goodridge (c)

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