Cometh the hour cometh the poem.
- 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.
- C. J. Black©β
Wednesday, 08 July 2015