20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers

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A year ago my poet’s pen was sharp,
but now my muse, it seems, hides far away.
I wish for oboe music and the harp,

get lost, instead, inside the piles of hay.
I search high, low, upon the poet’s plain,
find only nuggets here and there, no tray

resulting in a gold rush. Where’s the rain
I could dash into, feel refreshment? Words
escape the confines of my mind and brain

like hummingbirds or robins, little birds
that wing away. I wish for every sound
that make a poem, even thunderous herds.

But I am stuck in silence, in the ground
where words take time to grow and generate.
I wait for when my poem will abound.

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I am using haiku as an entrance back into poetry. For some reason, I am having trouble writing. Form escapes me, metaphor and simile hide behind ordinary words. I know that I need to SHOW, NOT TELL, but I have difficulty doing that. For awhile, about a year ago, this was a smooth road for me, but now that road is full of bumps and potholes.

Who can help get me back onto the highway of poetry that pleases, poems that come with a certain degree of ease? Who has suggestions for me? I would appreciate it so much.

And….I thank you.


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