And still I’m blocked…

inktuition and still I'm blocked

 

All the work I’ve done on myself:

the therapy, the healing,

the certificates I’ve gained,

the triumph of Masters degrees.

And still I’m blocked.

 

All the promises I’ve made,

to stay true to my talent,

seem to land on fertile turf,

yet remain fallow, dry, non-manifest.

And still I’m blocked.

 

All the years I’ve passed,

with fresh intentions each Jan

that fade to grey, nudging into Feb.

In March it’s as if they never began.

And still I’m blocked.

 

All the distractions I excitedly seek.

New garden: tick. Weekly weeding: tock.

Jobs to take my mind off the task,

decade after decade. That’s the shock.

And still I’m blocked.

 

All the futures I’ll never achieve:

what will be my hand-me-down glory?

A creative life chronically unlived?

Or trusting what’s for me won’t go past me?

 

Knowing all of this… and more.

And still I’m blocked.

 

(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/KROMKRATHOG)

trapped in non-life

head in noose

wishing someone could tighten the knot

melting my feet from beneath

 

alone in dilemma

an over-thinking hell

i seek solace under random lorry wheels

 

caught in a block

seeking release from within

i instead feel lost and without

 

age has caught up

i have the tears of a frown

etched on my disappointed face

 

no eyes turn my way

avoiding glance, discovery:

i’m just a forgotten yesterday

the conflict of lonely and alone

being alone is a heart-opening thing

and the solitary self comes alive when alone,

yet the yearning of lonely brings bitter-sweet tears

that fall on a cheek with a splash and a sting.

 

the bitter turns sweet when a spine feels the comb

of fingertips intent on opening the heart,

yet the yearning of lonely brings tears for fears,

and that solitary self plays a part.

 

My response to day 14 of NaPoWriMo 2016: write a san san

my fortune cookie poem

“True success is love, not power.”

 

Power is so, well, potent:

manipulating, cajoling, forcing

one’s way to success.

Love seems weak, in the shade

of Power’s dazzling beams.

Softer, more passive, waiting.

Love seems vague, elusive,

not out to be grabbed or hurried.

Power can be earned.

Love has to be given.

Power is impatient.

Love is empathic, considered, kind.

And what does success mean anyway?

Can one love without power,

and be powerful without love?

My response to Day 13 of NaPoWriMo: write a poem from a fortune cookie

a tritina for my enigmatic muse

You fragrance the warmth that resides in my heart.

Your heat is implicit in my aromatic words,

and yet consistency’s missed from your promised bouquet.

 

I dream of wild lily to spice your bouquet.

I pray for pale rose to prod my yearning heart

into blooming, creating a garden of words.

 

You hide in the trees, whispering the words

I need to capture and show in a scented bouquet.

Speak louder, please: help me speak from my heart.

 

Let me express my heart in a bouquet of ardent words.

 

My response to Day 7 of NaPoWriMo 2016: write a tritina