It’s been three days. It’s an oxymoron. A paradox. An incongruent prompt. Write on writer’s block Frank says. And all I’ve been watching is hours and hours of sand, silent, still, in the landscape of the written word.
I dig. The steel shovel straining my parched hope of ever forming a phrase. Sand mounds pile up, reeks of my sweat. And there! I hit upon a leather bound chest. With the key of intellect, I prise open the lid. Wise words of elite erudition fountain out of the sandy earth. I try and catch a few but they’re too smart for me and too snooty for my poem.
The writer’s mind doesn’t rest does it? Always flirting with the impossibles… charming the confusion, calming the chaos. A sandstorm whooshes around my head, whirling emotions, tossing thoughts, spinning stories. I close my eyes and watch words tessellate.
novice on high heels
balancing notebook of life
with words of the heart