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When I use my pen more often as a dart
then a tool for writing poetry, I'm lost.

When my mind can't find words that rhyme
I grumble to myself about my unfaithful muse.
She leaves no clues when she disappears, and
my fear is that she'll not return, which burns
me up inside.  Has she no sense of duty or pride?

When my once loyal muse becomes a lotus eater, 
discontent that I never give her proper recognition,
I ache to find a willow switch, with which to beat her!
but she's never heeded my threats of admonition.
I'm stuck in the quicksand, stumbling in a mire,
and my heart can't convey what it most desires.

But maybe I shouldn't deride her absence; after all,
it's my name that's signed after the last verse, so...
I'll not curse her for vacationing on a tropic isle.
In fact, I should consider just setting her free from me!

In confusion, I've drawn a rather overdue conclusion
"A poet's mind is not always a pine forest; evergreen."

So, on I plod across deserts of sand and poetic drought.
With my own wit, or lack of it, I try to quench my thirst
and hunger for morsels of imagery and metaphor.
I can't force my pen to write. It simply will not abide
my command when I demand its ink flows on a page.

I try to curb my rage at myself, but any poetic thoughts 
I might've had in my heart, ebbed with the tide.
Sometimes, I just close my eyes and contemplate
the fate that's led me to this barren field I've sown.
If I were Poe, this dark veil of stagnation would be 
the impetus to create a literary work of art: an epic
poem along the lines of my beating tell tale heart.

I will sit beneath a golden moon and a myriad of stars
pretending to write poetry, rhyming lyrics on musical bars.
In a place of quiet solitude I seek inspirational food,
a bone to chew with a few meaty tidbits left to munch.
I have a hunch that my muse will be back some day soon
and I'll show her what I've penned while she was gone
to who knows where. Perhaps she's looking for Brigadoon.

It's time to stop being forlorn, and let my sails billow.
I'm not a willow taken root to weep upon the shore.
I'll pull my pen from the dart board, dip it in ink,
and in the blink of an eye I'll leave my mooring place.
I'll weigh anchor and find inspiration upon the sea,
My captain's log will be a tome of my greatest poetry.


October 5th, 2020   ~   When There is no Inspiration
A poetry contest sponsored by Silent One
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