No Flow By David Allen I wonder If the reason My fountain pen Fails to write An impressive Bold black line Is the same As my current Writer's block. The ink, Like the words, Just refuses To flow.
Posts Tagged ‘writer’s block’
0
Words Gone
Posted: October 11, 2019 in PoetryTags: inspiration, muse, poet, poetry, writer's block, writing
Words Gone
By David Allen
The words were gone.
The poet sulked at his desk,
staring at the blank computer screen.
His Muse stood beside him,
sobbing while she stroked his neck.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said.
“I want to help you, but the words won’t come.
This is more than a simple writer’s block.
It’s more like the words absconded with the images,
the ideas are idle, blurry concepts just beyond reach.
I have failed you.”
“Don’t say that,” the Poet said,
turning to face his Muse.
“It’s not your fault.”
“It is,” she said.
“There’s too much darkness.
Too many things are piling up.
The words are suffocating under
the heap of today’s failures
and tomorrow’s fears.
I’m just not good for you.”
She turned and ran from the room.
The Poet muttered a few “damns” under his breath.
He wondered awhile whether to follow her.
Should he scrap the play
or go on to Act 2?
After a painfully slow minute,
he shook his head, then rose and left the room.
He climbed the stairs to their bedroom.
She sat cross-legged on the bed,
a pen in her right hand and a notepad on her lap.
“Look, I’m so…” he started.
But she cut him off, looking up,
Sadness and defeat contorted her face.
“So, did you come upstairs
To edit my suicide note?” she asked.
He walked to her side and kissed her cheek.
“No, just checking to make sure
you have no knives or pills up here,” he said.
His Muse’s frown turned into a slight smile.
“I just wish I was better at this,” she said.
“You are,” the Poet said as he left the room.
A few minutes later, he was back at the computer
typing slowly as a poem formed on the screen.
POEMS
Posted: December 24, 2017 in PoetryTags: Last Stanza, poems, poetry, voices in your head, writer's block, writing
POEMS
By David Allen
Damn!
Now I’ve done it.
It’s Monday
The Last Stanzas meet Friday
And I have no new poem to wow them;
Nothing,
Nada,
Nil.
My brain is as foggy
As the damp December day
Outside my home.
There was a glimmer of hope last night
When I saw an orphan poem
Sitting sadly, lonely,
On my computer’s desktop.
Hundreds of other poems
Gathered in “done” folders.
One massive file contained poems
Published over forty-two years,
Another folder bulged with poems
Prepared for my next book.
But this one poem sat alone.
I opened it and read about
My latest spinal operation
And the nurses who guided
My recovery with caring hands.
There was Tara, who would make
My pain Gone With the Wind,
And Destiny, who said I’d be fine,
But wasn’t so sure about her future.
I smiled and exhaled a sigh of relief
“I don’t think I shared this one,” I said to Myself.
“Good, now go to bed,” he answered.
But in the morning I had doubts
And called the Last Stanza leader
Just to make sure the awesome poem
Had not been shared with the group.
“Send it to me,” she said.
“Aw, it’s upstairs and I’m sipping coffee
Huddled on the couch under a blanket,” I complained.
“It was about my nursing care after my operation.”
She remembered the poem. I read it to the group months ago.
“Just write a new one,” the poetess said.
We said our goodbyes
And I pouted and pulled
At my Holidazed mind
For just a few lines.
And now, this…
It’s a week before Christmas
And all through the house
I searched for a poem
But my inner voice groused.
“Hey buster, forget it
There’s no poem here
Your gift sack is empty
There is no good cheer.
“You’re being punished
You’ve been a bad guy
You laughed at deadlines
When you were a news scribe.
“Now, you’re paying for laying
For days on the couch
Binging on Christmas movies
You’ve been a real slouch.”
“Bah, humbug,” I muttered
“Hey, I have an idea.
I’m thinking of sleeping
Until the New Year.”
I then heard a rumble
Of yells in my head
“Scram!” Inner Voice yelled
“Screw you!” Ego said.
“David still has it,” Ego announced
“Just give him a chance.
He’ll soon find a theme
And the words will dance.”
So, I drained my coffee,
My fifth or sixth cup,
And told the two voices
To shut the hell up.
Then I reached for my pen
And this notebook I filled
With this new poem
I knew fit the bill.
WHERE ARE THE POEMS?
Posted: December 19, 2014 in PoetryTags: Bukowski, Collins, Cummings, Ferlinghetti, Gnsberg, inspiration, Jack, muse, news, poems, poetic engine, poetry, unpoetic, where, writer's block
WHERE ARE THE POEMS
by David Allen
Where are the poems?
I looked in all the familiar
Places and failed to find
A line that I could use.
I wanted to ask my muse,
For a shot of inspiration,
But she slept the sleep
Of the jet lagged
And I feared waking her
Would result in words too tart.
I looked in the bathroom
And behind the bar
But found no Bukowski hidden there.
The fridge offered no Ferlinghetti.
So I went out back, but Jack
Must’ve been somewhere on the road
No words, no poems.
No Ginsberg in my ginseng tea
No Billy Collins cropped
Up in my cup
And Cummings apparently
Must’ve come and went
Before my feet hit the
Bedroom floor
An unpoetic day, I thought
That’s what this is
And so, I left for work
Where the news is my muse.
The words always come easy there,
Like the snippets I write when a trial drags
And I readily reach
Into the recess of my
Addled mind and find
The thoughts to kick start
The poetic engine of my being.
A WRITER AFRAID OF HIS PEN
Posted: November 2, 2014 in PoetryTags: David Allen, fear, insecurity, neuroptioc, pen, poetry, writer's block, writing
A WRITER AFRAID OF HIS PEN
By David Allen
Look at him sitting there
contemplating rhyme,
stretching the time, feeling
there’s another change
left in his repertoire of life.
He doesn’t realize the fears
which force the doubt upon
his tortured mind, again
and again, making him
abandon plotted paths
for the impulse trail,
dropping the pen in favor
of reading a book,
raiding the fridge,
or going for a long drive,
is insecurity, a shadowy
stranger who seeks to make
new friends with the neurotic
at the short end of the stick.
He calls it writer’s block,
but who is he trying to fool?
He is afraid of the one tool,
the one gift, which could
make it all worthwhile,
choosing, instead, to run away
never testing the tool to
see if it works.
My second book of poetry, “(more)’ is now available on Amazon Kindle. The paperback edition is also available. If you want a signed copy, email me at david@davidallen.nu. Order your copy today! I am like most poets — poor.
A WRITER AFRAID OF HIS PEN
Posted: May 20, 2014 in PoetryTags: David Allen, fear, poetry, writer's block, writing
A WRITER AFRAID OF HIS PEN
Look at him sitting there
contemplating rhyme,
stretching the time, feeling
there’s another change
left in his repertoire of life.
He doesn’t realize the fears
which force the doubt upon
his tortured mind, again
and again, making him
abandon plotted paths
for the impulse trail,
dropping the pen in favor
of reading a book,
raiding the fridge,
or going for a long drive,
is insecurity, a shadowy
stranger who seeks to make
new friends with the neurotic
at the short end of the stick.
He calls it writer’s block,
but who is he trying to fool?
He is afraid of the one tool,
the one gift, which could
make it all worthwhile,
choosing, instead, to run away
never testing the tool to
see if it works.
By David Allen
Type Dancing 