It was a long night.

Cometh the hour cometh the poem.

  1. C. J. Black

Here I am again, seated in my den

Alarm clock set, casting the net-

Far out into the word ocean

To assist a rhymer – short of a notion.


A poet floundering in isolation

Words of sympathy are no consolation.

It’s enough to drive you to distraction –

Sitting with quill in hand – no reaction.


Let me out, set me free

The words of Mary Gauthier

I could use some mercy now’

But the demons in my head will not this allow.


It’s as though I’m shackled to this poet’s chair

The only words I can emit, begin, unfortunately with a swear.

In the dead of night with just your thoughts for company

You must express yourself somehow to set those demons free.


Eventually you find the key which unlocks a single thought

Suddenly you feel at ease, feeling much less distraught

Now you are in a position to compose a poem in rhyme

Everything comes to those who wait – a true saying – given time.


It may take all night long before you are satisfied

But time will pass un-noticed, now you’re no longer tongue-tied.

This weight now lifted off your shoulders is a great relief

Is it not a most wonderful feeling – the feeling of self – belief?


Once the juices begin to flow

Who knows where a poem will go?

You started out with nothing to say

Now you’re giving thanks for the phrase ‘wordplay’

OK, I’ll never claim to be another William Shakespeare

But I’ve just written another ‘poem’ in rhyme so to me I say here, here.


  1. C. J. Black©β

Wednesday, 08 July 2015




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