Featured Poem: Writer’s Block

Barb Whitmarsh
Bayou City Branch, Texas

There I sit
Done with trees
Their rugged hide
Their fallen leaves


Ended the garden
At mid-lawn
With vibrant roses
And firethorn


Through with birds
On twig or in flight
Chirping in mornings
Hooting in nights


Finished with stars
Zodiac members
Burned out long ago
All that’s left – embers


No more verses
On oceans and waves
Their ships with cargo
And bereft slaves


All things come
Eventually to halt
It isn’t the plants’
Or animals’ fault


It is the pen
Though often a shock
But will entice again
To end writer’s block



  1. Janet Fagal says:

    Yes….the fickle muse! What can I write about? What can draw me in, where have I not quite gone before. Writing is lonely, seat-in-chair work, yet so much more: our muse, critique partners, valued friends. And then satisfying when our words are shared, read, re-read. But never give up. Your poem got me thinking, Barb.

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