An artist with writer's block struggles to reclaim art after tragedy.
Clean white pages haunt me,
home for words no longer heard.
Gods of Literature admonish me,
"Search your beating heart,
travel tear filled pulsing veins.
Language flows in the river of pain".
Far easier to blame my muse.
Overworked, abused, sleep deprived
from my constant demands.
Unable to find her voice,
she curled up for a long winter's nap.
Once upon a time,
I cherished virgin pages.
My empty canvas was fertile,
able to create new characters
from an overflowing cup of fables.
I had a festival of metaphors
and a rainbow of similes.
Poems blossomed in my garden.
Short stories came to life
with characters you'd want to meet.
You walked into my life,
an alluring ray of eternal sunshine.
I watch you sketch,
intense joy on your face.
Abundant passion floods the room.
My heart opened, words hung in the air,
ripened fruit to be picked.
A waterfall cascaded with emotions.
Love with remembered tenderness
treasured under a brilliant sun.
Life holds certain change.
Egg greet sperm, miracle of birth.
Pimples, gangly limbs of youth,
larva transforms into a majestic butterfly.
Enter sunshine of life, exit stormy skies.
Kaleidoscope breaks, heart shatters.
Your words, "Better to go now".
Before why, when, where, for who?
A tunnel of sorrow surrounds me,
echoing over and over; "Fool!"
By Kathie Stehr
Edited June 17, 2020