We are there
all of us,
poets, wannabe poets, others
in the shade waiting for the light
of the newly known,
to shine on us and give us function

at best
with a name,
or
in the circle of…………
an associate of………
mistress of……………..

this light will fade
and we’re gone
to live with our memories.

We were almost there.

I thought that if I took my writers block
And cut it into pieces
I could build a wall
And, being higher
I would see the Eastern Dawn sooner

That way I would have a leg-up
so to speak
on all the other writers and poets
and gain an advantage.

My words would be brighter, cleaner, newer
Ready to go
To fit into my line
And make a poem.


But clouds came,
the light dimmed
And the words stopped.
There will be a tomorrow the weatherman said