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Tags: Poem, Poetry


Submitted:Oct 31, 2009    Reads: 96    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   

I stare at the canvas
paint brush ready and in hand
I summon the ghost of Dali
to help me understand
Why on this day
imagery deserts
The salt of artist block
constantly hurts

With black ink
and pale candle light
A rhyming poem
I set about to write
My mind like the paper
in front of me
Is blank
I have been drained of all creativity

I board a steamboat
and romantically travel the sea
Dock in China
and search the fabled Poa - Tree
I follow mistold directions
and some tell tale debris
Seek to locate the angiosperm
to spray rhymes over me

I smoke opium
inhale with Clinton some pot
Drink some beer
and take a tequila shot
But when I close my eyes
no colour just tension
Dark ill lit corridors
no imagery invention

I read a Henry Miller book
they often challenge my intellect
But alas on this occasion
The air conditioned nightmare has no effect
Perhaps, some how I have
a rare form of brain damage
That has robbed me
of all my decorative language

I just write the word why
upon the paper a thousand times
I take myself to bed
with the repeated lines
A whisper in my dreams
said "like the tears that we cry
Art comes from a deep well
that never runs dry"

You can not forcefully remove
or casually dip a toe
You have to let that natural spring
freely over flow


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