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Poetry Magnum Opus



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Looking forward to write the right poem, 
not because of my distance from the left, 
for they are not that fart apart. 
Is it not injustice being detained,
all my thoughts within the walls of my brain?
But the sprain in my fingers, the pen is long
held, a millimeter away from paper.
How bad is it to discover, it has no ink?
Wink, wink, wink.

"Words are not things, and yet they are not non-things either." - Ann Lauterbach

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Thanks badger11 for the read. It is indeed a light poem just for fun and because of that, it is no typo in L3. It was intentional :-)


"Words are not things, and yet they are not non-things either." - Ann Lauterbach

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Thanks for the read too,  Judi/Tinker.

"Words are not things, and yet they are not non-things either." - Ann Lauterbach

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Joel: You might want to reread the 3rd line of HELD. 

An indication the typing fingers can be doing as you would wish, but the mind has a tendency to wander at a wrong moment.  Humorous none-the-less.


I just realized, I too should be taken to task. You have already been notified of the Typo.  I enjoy your writings.


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  • 2 years later...

While taking time out to catch up on news, and muse, I  lingered on Joel Josol's poem dated March 20 2018; (looking forward to writing the right poem.) This poem brought to mind a poem I wrote of similar despair; titled Writer’s Dilemma

There are times when this writer can not write because of a creative mental bloc. It’s a time when the "window of the mind" becomes too clouded to see into the world of imagination. With patience and perseverance, a small "window" will gradually widen, and a flood of wondrous thoughts, make it difficult for the pen to write quickly, trying to keep up with what the mind sees. However after my writers block dissolved I wrote this poem within an hour. 

Writer’s Dilemma
Here I sit with pen and pad...my hand is willing to write. 
Thoughts entering my mind, pass before clouded sight. 
I could write about kittens or puppies; possibilities flow endlessly. 
I considered many memories, that were special to me. 

Day old kittens in a rag-lined box, eyes closed tight as they feel 
Along the belly of a Calico mother, for promise of a nourishing meal. 
I visioned puppies that jump and bounce; as I stand in their midst to admire, 
Their soft fur, shiny eyes and wagging tails, that never seem to tire. 

I see birds in flight... like rolling waves, chasing a breeze o'er the sea, 
In rhythm they rise and fall, as though performing just for me. 
Visions come...visions go; many to my face bring a smile. 
These thoughts I lingered on, satisfied to dream for a while. 

My hand rests, my pen is still; words have not been written. 
How will I start a poem I muse; it seems my mind is smitten. 
I picture flowers of brilliant color; faint stars that twinkle at night; 
Old autos with wood-spoked wheels, still my pen does not write. 

I see horses in a sunlit pasture; on a farm among rolling hills... 
An oak tree with wide spread limbs; visions overwhelm me with thrills. 
An antique rocker near a fireplace, a rippling stream in a wooded glen, 
A sailboat leans before a determined breeze, I want to write, but when? 

Images fade,...an hour has passed, I had many thoughts during this time. 
All were splendid memories, yet...no words have I put to rhyme. 
Oh...there will be other times, I'll want to write I suppose,
But, I may only indulge myself, with visions of...tall buildings, 
                                                                                                                purple mountains, 
                                                                                                                                          or just a rose. 
Robert G. Jerore

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