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unanswered questions fill the poet with profound frustration
unreachable, unattainable
insolent silence
staring into the hollowness of insignificance
a lost-boy-like loathing of the child within the versifier
seeking bearing like the blind, sans dog
ideas zip
can't get a grip
attracting unnamed doggerel like flypaper
trying to compose these visceral thoughts onto papyrus
banging away like a rodeo bull
aching, grasping the right words
within the fogged thicket of diminutive, poets' mind
ought to be natural as hens laying an egg
make a fist of air
say a prayer
is it brilliance in the making
or merely menopausal, womanopausal, conceiving
slumped in fireside chair like a boxer between rounds
ego bruised, hearing hooting, finger-pointing thunder
incurable intensity of belief fulfills itself
we are owned by our fears
heart and mind gone
dismal gray dawn
hovering just inside thought-process is your brilliance
dealing with conscience of death
curse of humanity
verses to pen of pain and suffering
ink has run dry
lost among the incestuous reality of essence
screams are not heard
there are no words
naked truth sets in at fundamental level
when the Voice of the Bard laughs in your face
causing temporary (maybe) madness
while you sit motionless in self-inflicted hell
Quasimodo never so hideous
Paradise Lost moves into soft places of hurt
inside dark vale
beyond the pale
your genius, nothing but a traveling man's smile
behind that
crouching evil troll, wild-eyed, bloody-handed
nekkid sonofabitch
laying in wait for the poet to sob for lost fame
to the sound of soul-bones shattering
its over now
gloom on your brow
within chaotic images of insanity
the poet roars a magnificent hiss
speaks to ghost, ancient bards of poetical importance
saying
give distress a day of yourself, not a day-and-a-half
your brand-new muse, reflects you
fondles the pen
greatness begins
İFebruary 26, 2017 Jerry Pat Bolton
unreachable, unattainable
insolent silence
staring into the hollowness of insignificance
a lost-boy-like loathing of the child within the versifier
seeking bearing like the blind, sans dog
ideas zip
can't get a grip
attracting unnamed doggerel like flypaper
trying to compose these visceral thoughts onto papyrus
banging away like a rodeo bull
aching, grasping the right words
within the fogged thicket of diminutive, poets' mind
ought to be natural as hens laying an egg
make a fist of air
say a prayer
is it brilliance in the making
or merely menopausal, womanopausal, conceiving
slumped in fireside chair like a boxer between rounds
ego bruised, hearing hooting, finger-pointing thunder
incurable intensity of belief fulfills itself
we are owned by our fears
heart and mind gone
dismal gray dawn
hovering just inside thought-process is your brilliance
dealing with conscience of death
curse of humanity
verses to pen of pain and suffering
ink has run dry
lost among the incestuous reality of essence
screams are not heard
there are no words
naked truth sets in at fundamental level
when the Voice of the Bard laughs in your face
causing temporary (maybe) madness
while you sit motionless in self-inflicted hell
Quasimodo never so hideous
Paradise Lost moves into soft places of hurt
inside dark vale
beyond the pale
your genius, nothing but a traveling man's smile
behind that
crouching evil troll, wild-eyed, bloody-handed
nekkid sonofabitch
laying in wait for the poet to sob for lost fame
to the sound of soul-bones shattering
its over now
gloom on your brow
within chaotic images of insanity
the poet roars a magnificent hiss
speaks to ghost, ancient bards of poetical importance
saying
give distress a day of yourself, not a day-and-a-half
your brand-new muse, reflects you
fondles the pen
greatness begins
İFebruary 26, 2017 Jerry Pat Bolton
Published 17th Mar 2017
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 5
reading list entries 1
comments 10
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17th Mar 2017 8:05pm
Looks like your looking for something youalready found. A poet is a poet
17th Mar 2017 9:15pm
I know you're right-on, Boots. Eh, this poem was in me needing to be written, so . . . I obliged. Thank you for you kindness.
17th Mar 2017 9:20pm
Captures so well the tortuous tosses and turns inside the poet's mind - a great reflection on the process itself. Thank you.
Thank you very much, Josh. I appreciate your thought concerning my poem I am grateful you are following me. I certainly will do the same for you my newly found friend..
18th Mar 2017 12:38pm
Sometimes the writing process is maddening and you've captured that very well here, Jerry. But in the end the poem is born.
You are absolutely correct, Ahavati. when words, or even one word fails us it's like the end of the world, but soon, although you think it seems like days, that word or words come to us and the writing goes on. Thank you for your presence here today.
Anonymous
19th Mar 2017 3:01am
Hey Jerry......our words are always within us...at times they are silent.......poetry is in our veins......our words alway come back when we least expect it......this is a brilliant ink.....lots of deep thoughts in this.....enjoyed.....purple luv & hugs xo :)
True enough, flower, our words are always with us, but many times we have relapses and are unable to find them. But as you have said they come to us eventually. It is the waiting for it hat kills me. Thank you for your superior, in-depth comments, my friend.
Anonymous
25th Mar 2017 1:56am
Words escape me these days my friend....I hope I find some of what you did...perhaps I am looking in the wrong places for inspiration or I'm allowing all the "other" to weigh the words down...time will tell....I enjoyed this as always...
xoxo Taryn
xoxo Taryn
25th Mar 2017 2:00pm
I understand, Taryn, have been there. Done that.The words will come if you just keep trying, they will surely come. I also have allowed outside thought befuddle me, but I overcame them. You shall also.
