blocks, image by ZeeShutterz Framing beauty with creativity, on Pixabay
Writer’s Block [the dangerous kind]
I need to clean out the birdhouses,
cut up the solar cover (ripped and torn),
and stack the deck chairs in the shed
along with the table umbrellas.
It’s late September and the horn
of plenty is empty. The colors of the month are red
and yellow as temperatures fall
into the fifties at night.
But who cares? Why would you want to read
about any of this in a poem? It’s too small
and unimportant of a topic, too mundane and trite.
A poem should take on big ideas like
salvation and death, redemption and sin,
focusing on epiphanies with the emotional weight
to make you feel as if a long spike
has pierced your soul. Forgive me. I’ve been
negligent in my duty. And to think I call myself a poet.
I should probably take this poem out to the firepit,
stare as the smoke rises, paper crumbling into ash,
and, after fifty years of trying, take a hint and quit.
*
Ars Poetica #69
“I’m writing a book. I’ve got the page numbers done.” Steven Wright
I want a poem to save me
from all evil and myself, then take me home and cook
some corned beef, potatoes, and cabbage with that same red
sauce my wife makes. Of course, it wouldn’t be as good
as my wife’s, but good enough to eat.
I want a poem to cut the chains, set me free
and give me a pep-talk to build my confidence
so I can take on any job, perform
any task, solve any problem.
I want a poem to show me the way,
to light a path or part the sea
so I can walk safely into my dreams.
And most of all, the poem should grab my heart
and squeeze it gently until all my love
fills the room, the house, the city, the world.
Born and raised on the third coast, Michigan, David James has published eight books;
his most recent is Doing My Best to Shine, by Shanti Arts Books. James worked for 45
years in higher education before retiring to a life of leisure and writing, among other things.
February 2025 issue
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