BLOCK AND TACKLE

This old heart says I’ve sinned…

Sit here breaking no new ground,

I’m only breaking wind,

But, in the grand tradition,

I burn the midnight lamp,

And sit here, poised with pen in hand:

An imperious knight,

With a serious Writer’s Cramp…

With miles to go before I reach

The City of my dreams,

Where poets walk the streets and each

Writes poetry by the reams;

Yet, in the corner where I stand

The ticking of the clock

Reminds me, poised, with pen in hand,

Of a serious, mysterious Writer’s Block…

Words that do not flow, but mock

And add to all my fears…

How then shall I tame this block

And tackle all this passing of the years?

Forsaken by the living and

Mistaken for a rock,

I sit here, poised with pen in hand,

And a serious, mysterious Writer’s Block…