Writer’s Block

Sometimes, I get mired in the mode of the sage,

The deluge of thinking, the whirlwinds of thought –

In time, my brain tires, like a cat in a cage,

Straining its vision through bars, overwrought.

And so, my perception succumbs to the slur

Of angels and demons and beacons that blur.

~

Of course, I aspire to be wise in the word,

To have the voice in me, to be in the light –

And then, I’m inspired to sing out and be heard.

The Light throws shadows, like segments of night;

The voice in my head has me telling the throng,

“It’s all in the music; it’s all in the song.”

~

The ice and the fire of the human intent,

Political currents, the moral debate –

These are the high spires, onto which I am sent,

The abysmal fountain of chance or fate;

Whatever the story, the why or the how

Has little meaning in the here and the now.

~

But, when I’ve acquired the design of a tale,

A fanciful moment, a fictional place –

I all but retire to ingather the hail

Of notions and whims that fall on my face;

And soon, I am tracing the words of the scheme,

Racing to find me at the dawn of a dream.

r. nuñez, 6/2013