writers block

PANDORA’S MORE FORTUNATE DAUGHTER

Working

Mothering

All the usuals

Happiness

Sadness

All the emotions

The real me

Kept boxed up

Until one day

Retirement

What to do?

Collection of boxes

Containing nothing but

Sparkly dust

Poured a bit into my palm

A sonnet appeared

Oh, sure, not Shakespeare-worthy

But each day it grew

Until there were twenty-two

One for each symbol

Of the Major Arcana

Then there were twelve

Terza Rima

For each Zodiac sign

And each box

Had its own lines

Until there was a

Rima Royale

Of birds

And a tiny box of Haiku

Slightly larger box of Tanka

But in a special box

Of the loveliest cloisonne

Shone silver Moon dust

Mixed with golden Sunlight

And Stars of blue and every hue

They whirled above me

Then gently drizzled down

Covering my head, lips, shoulders

And as I grew older

I became bolder

Free

Free at last

Poetry that had no use for rhyme

Stream-of-consciousness

Confessional

Memoirs

Gutter talk

A touch of erotica

Words made up

Words spilling from a box

Filling ten books

Of words hidden inside

For decades

The real me

Then one day

Those magical boxes

Were empty

I’d open the lids

In the three A.M. shadows

Whispering, “Where’d you go?”

So, I bought more boxes

My collection growing

And one cloudy morning

Something sang out

From a new box

And there

As I hastily opened the lock

Was a different dust

Sparkling? Not quite

Sparking!

Like electricity

And poetry melded

With musical chords

And songs were born

Euterpe with her magic flute

Pushed open the lids

Danced with her sister

Terpsichore

And I wrote

And strummed

And sang

And hummed

But I see

The magical dust

In my box collection

Is once again disappearing

And so I say

Today is the day

I shop for a new box

And begin an unknown

Collection…

(c) 2018 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: Some of my magic boxes

WRITER’S BLOCK

 

Poetry won’t come!

Physically aching

For the words to

Emerge

Foreplay to titillate

Scrawling those one-liners

In the bedroom night

Not much seems right

Tasting the skin

Of a willing notebook

Black ink leaving a trail

From lips to base of the page

Oh, please! Don’t stop!

Words becoming more insistent

As the pen forcefully penetrates

Tearing into the virgin

Leaf of the holy spiral book

Ideas, metaphors, similes

Parts of speech

Slamming in and out

As the ideas spout

Spurting

At last

Denouement

Going on and on

As breathlessly

The poem sighs

While the mind

Busily begins to revise

The words…

 

© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Pen and Ink by Levi Brown

 

 

TWO CREATIVITY POEMS

 

CREATE THE DAY

 

What kind of day greets me

Waking up with the Romani song

Diri Diri So Kerdjan

(How Can This Be)

Clunking through my head

What kind of day will exist

Working out on the elliptical

Randomly shuffled playlist:

When Doves Cry

When Will I Be Loved

Don’t Fear the Reaper

What kind of day will I see

Alone, just the dogs and me

What kind of day?

Anything I want it to be

 

 

CREATE THE POEM

 

Forcing it

Must write

Prompts blight

My mind:

Graphics

Warm shower

Music

Sortilege

Gazing at the sky

Walking in nature

Thinking of events

That make me cry

Why oh why

Have words deserted me

Thought the reservoir

Was endlessly brimming

Can no longer accept

I’m specially skilled

Uncooperative brain

Unfulfilled

 

© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Human Connectome Project (Neuroimaging)