RETURN

this past year has been a constant struggle
my words became well versed in evasion
I find  I must return to my distant past
and draw suppressed thoughts to attention
from sixteen hundred and five and so cast
before curious bloggers without shame
that which is needed to lead back my words 

Out of Sorts Sonnet

I started trying to write a sonnet
to my chagrin I with failure was met
count as I might never syllables ten
dribbled forth from my silent weeping pen
vagrant pulses fleeting across blank sheets
collide in that realm where everything meets
confusion runs amok blotting out ink
that must finally into paper sink
this battle I swear will end in success
tho’ to some my scribbles may seem a mess
I struggle through this dark and endless night
asking nothing except to win this fight
never prone to gamble I place my bet
I shall complete this out of sorts sonnet

DRY SPELL

possibly a common

metaphor

frequently used

colloquialism

however one

characterizes

it

lately I have

been going through

A DRY SPELL

while writing not

that I have nothing

to say

my fingertips

struggle over

keys

no longer responding

to their caress

my pen has ceased

scrawling

across coffee-stained

pages

waiting to be abused

by droplets of verbiage

held prisoner as

ambivalence

assails

BUT WAIT

do

I feel winds

bringing change?

We’ll see

Words do not Care

I struggle to put words on paper
That seems to avoid my chalk
Through many sleepless nights
I sit waiting for dawn
Hoping for a temporary calm
To my scattered thoughts

Clinging to the tuft of grass
There on the lip of the cliff
Praying for it to keep holding
For just one more heartbeat

Dancing along a razor’s edge
What does a hero ever get?
Almost dead yesterday
Maybe dead tomorrow
What good is being alive
If it means living caged?

He knew very well
That he was quite mad
But because he was mad
He simply did not care

~~~~~Jerry Marks