Tuesday, November 17, 2020

Further . . .


Here, nothing but time
On my dirty hands, to no
No avail.
Try as hard I might,
Pour-ing every ounce of 
My energy 
Into a song,
The only thing I can do for you.
Something is wrong.
Barely a note breaking through.
Hardly a clue.
Dry as a well.
Arid as the desert 
I seem to be.
When will it end?
We will see

What, you’re asking, 
Is there to be concerned 
About in this anomaly? 
Sure this kind of thing 
Happens all the time to
All practitioners of 
Rhythmic expression.
Propelling souls into space; flying
Evoking so 
Many emotions within,
Out of the din.
But in spite of this,
I will persevere in
My endless quest for 
Voice to express
What I feel.

What do you think? Tell me at

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