Like a nervous stutterer
Standing in front of
A heckling crowd I
Turn on the spigot
Only to hear spit
Splash spit and stop
And amidst my chagrin
Walk off the stage
Words written but never
Said like a forlorn
Lover unable to post
The sonnets he’d written
And like returning to
The highland getaway cabin
After a particularly devastating
Winter I stare upon
The blank page upon
Where I would go
To hide from coldness
Arms where I found
Comfort lips where I
Sought refuge laughter which
Blocked out the blinding
Heated light of despair
Only to find them
All gone these revelers
Once the wine and
Warmth turned to ash
Apologies to my readers
The words which I
So enjoy and the
Stories that they spin
Somehow got stuck caught
Or simply dried up
Maybe I got tired
Perhaps I grew old
At any rate I
Decided to step away
Step down and stop
I have discovered in
My long long life
That when anything stops
Being a joy then
It’s best to sleep
Repair renew and dream
Sometimes you just don’t
Can’t won’t or will
Sometimes the desire is
Gone keeping you still
And quiet faraway from
Writing like a pill
Whether swallowed or penned
Simply paying the bill
For things already written
One day I hope
That someone will read
These words and wish
That they’d been written
And read to him
I do get tired
Talking to the flowers
That sprouted from seeds
That I had planted
Just once I wish
That a flower would
Talk to me knowing
That it seeing me
Is what makes me
Into a beautiful poem
HARLAN DIDRICKSON 