Lament of the dayjobber

So oft I turn, in light of day,
T’ward vibrant, new imaginings
Off on a quest does my mind stray
Far from mundane, dull, lesser things

Throughout the morning do I weave
A story on my mind’s tableau
Filled with a fantasist’s reprieve
From worldly winds that twist and blow

In afternoon, my inner eye
Wanders to distant, wondrous lands
Where heroes walk and dragons fly
Above some other shore’s bright sands

Alas that in the night, my mind,
So weary from the long day’s work,
Struggles in memory to find
The stories ‘mongst the tired murk


I forgot to write a poem!

Whatever shall I do?

Give up and now forgo ’em?

Stop writing? Reading, too?

I’m feeling so embarrassed

But now the hour is late

So I will merely write this

And ‘morrow sleep by eight

Sonnet 11 – Breakdown

Alas! As if my brain had turnt to sludge
I’ve lost my will to write; each lonely drop
Of creativity won’t spark, won’t budge
They each insist they cease, desist, and stop

My lexicon’s diminished, torn to shreds
I’m scarce able to rhyme, resigned to plod
Along all day until it’s time for bed(s)
And write, ‘blah blah, blah blah, blah blah, blah blah’.(d)

Not long before the meter will succumb
To frazzled, twisted thoughts that can’t quite form
Coherent, structured sentences dumb
They make so little sense anymore

Perhaps I’ll turn to reading now instead
Perhaps somehow it can reset my head

The quiet thought

As I am writing in my chair

A quiet thought arrives:

Why do I write? How do I dare

To presume to change lives?


Why should I for a moment think

That which I’ve said’s profound?

That all will still my poems drink

When I am in the ground?


This tort’rous thought traps me in webs

Of which I can’t escape

While fleeting inspiration ebbs;

In doubt I myself drape.