There'll come days when you'll have nothing to write
and trust me even that nothing will be enough
you'll try to embrace the hollow of deficiency
but choke in the dark fumes of attempting to put up a fight
against the void whilst you search for your efficiency
you will scratch your mind for just a word but in vain
shake you will the trees and nothing will fall,it will pain
no single leaf will, not even a dry little twig
you'll wander all over the gardens of creativity
but find no soft alluviums,not a single spot to dig
it will feel an unfair election that fate is going to rig
yet your petition will yield no fruit, not an apple,nor a fig
your fingers will itch worse than infestation by a jigger
with the enema of motivation present but meagre
you'll miss the days whence it rained rhymes
oh! how much you'll long for those flooding times
like a pauper loitering the streets hopelessly thirsty for dimes
and the bells of your emotions will ring melancholic chimes
as you remember that sweet piece that got many hailing your prowess
and like a snail, return will your abilities in
an unbearable wait, call it a steady progress
you will be an active volcano whose vent's blocked from within
forced to abide by the nonentity blank of where to begin
unlike the usual floret and bombastic sweet nothings
you'll draw the fly speck in ink of unclear etchings
to give definition to the infinity of your nullity
and the insubstantiality of the ink sprayed
will be tattered clothes that patch your mental ******
you won't be satiated, but you'll survive the monsters of obsession that hide
in the furthest corners of your psychomotor, deep inside
and you'll appreciate the philosophy, sometimes obstacle's the path
for the scratch and naught from your struggle'll bear worth
so never take shelter under the sunless tree of the writers block
the wave of emotions poets command can break any stumbling block

Of all the chances that I ever took
The best by far was to open a book.
For I quickly discovered that to read
Is the most rewarding pastime indeed.

Then reading in me a spark did ignite
To a burning desire one day to write.
Thankfully though, that what writers most need
Is other books, other authors to read

Books are like flowers
Their words pollen seeds,
Carried far and wide
By all those who read.
With other words merge
To new life ignite
In the fertile minds
Of all those who write.
There tended, nourished
For hour after hour.
Encouraged to grow,
To once more flower.

Apologies, as this is not in fact a poem.  It is, however, a link to a whole bunch of poems.  
Between now and Tuesday, my first poetry collection, "Over Glassy Horizon", is free to download on Kindle.

US link: tinyurl.com/usd-ogh
UK link: tinyurl.com/ukd-ogh  
(Elsewhere in the world, just hop onto Amazon and look up the book.  The offer is worldwide.)

Hope you enjoy this freebie.  All reviews are much appreciated.

What worlds of wonders are our books
As one opens them and looks,
new ideas and people rise
In our fancies and our eyes
The room we sit in melts away,
And we find ourselves at play
With someone who before the end,
May become our chosen friend
We sail along the page
To some other land or age.
Here is our body in the chair
But our mind is over there.
Each book is a magic box
Which with a touch
A child unlocks.
In between their outside cover
Books held all things, for their lover

መፃሕፍት

ገልፆ ለሚያያቸው
መሕፍት ምንኛ
ድንቅ ዓለሞች ናቸው፣
በምናባችን በዓይኖቻችን ማእዘን
ይከስታሉ አዳዲስ ሓሳቦች፣
እንዲሁም ልዩ ልዩ ሰዎች!
የተቀመጥንበት ክፍል ድንገት
ጅረት ይሆንና
ይዞን ሲነጉድ
እስከጥግ ሳንዘልቅ ገና
እንተዋወቃለን ሠዎች ደና
የሚያደርጉን ዘና፣
ምናልባትም ለዘልቄታው
የሚሆኑን የኛ
ምርጥ ጓደኛ!
አሊያም ገጾቹን ቀዝፈን
ራሳቸንን ናገኛለን
ወደሌላ ያለም ማዘን
ወይ ዘመን ተጓጉዘን
‘ዚህ ወንበር ላይ
በአካል ተቀምጠን
በምናብ ተሻግረን ዛነን፡፡

‘ያንዳንዱ መፅፍ
የድንቃድንቅ ማህደር ነው
‘ያንዳንዱ ህፃን ይዞ
ሚከፍተው ቁልፉን ጠምዞ፡፡
አጥብቆ ለሚሻቸው
በውጪ ልባሶቻቸው
መፃሕፍት ሸክፈዋል
ሁሉን አቅፈው!
(ኢሌኖር ፍራጂዮን) //

Six lines can say more than six pages.
But authors and poets have dissimilar wages.
Why?

An old black vulture landed in a tree
overlooking Chickamauga Creek;
gave me a sidelong glance.

I thought of Edward Abbey,
critic of government agencies,
professor and park ranger.

Abbey is buried in an illegal grave;
a cairn of stones covers
his remains.

His friends saw to his request,
wrote on one stone,
“Edward Abbey, no comment.”

The nemesis of Glen Canyon Dam
desired no memorial,
got one anyway.

He always said he’d come back
as a vulture next time,
just seemed fitting.

I looked up into the oak,
said, “Hey there Ed,
looks like a good day for flying.”

Abbey didn’t say a word
just gave me that sidelong look,
the old buzzard.

Today I gazed into the mirror
Realized I'm, I've been and
Different will forever be.
I realized something else
That somewhere out there
There's someone like me
Living within his own confines
Better versions of everyday
He constructs and life redefines
Someone who thinks reality is wrong
And dreams are for real
Someone who once struggled against the wheel
And realized it’s got a stronger will
Someone whose weakness is their strength
Someone who always goes alength
Someone who knows that the normal Train left
While they in the day slept
So they have to wake all night
To think, imagine fight and write
Someone who knows the past is abreast
That they can surf the wave of life to her crest
For while others are in motion
There's always them at rest
And that fact addressed
Now embrace that notion
Someone whose cyclone is cynical
Going past the usual pinnacles
In a struggle to being a pinnacle ladder
Someone working ****** harder
Someone different but feeling no shame
Knowing our differences make us the same

Facebook's not a journal,
Twitter's not a place,
That's the massive problem
With the current human race.

Your mood is not a hashtag,
'Selfie' is spelled with an S,
We're really all addicted,
Which we know, but won't confess.

Our kids will play computers,
They'll be Apple's biggest fans,
But what about the authors,
Who wrote things with their hands?

Dickens, Wilde and Hawthorne,
I'm sure would bear a frown,
For PAPER was the only way,
They wrote their stories down.