20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers

Dry Spell

My hand won’t write, but worse than that
my mind can’t conjure up the words
that float on air like little birds.
Where’s the magician and his hat?

I’d wish that he might pull a song
from whence the furry rabbits come.
Please give me something, let me hum
a tune, a verse. It’s all so wrong

to be bereft of energy
for writing on this snowy morn.
Suppose ideas will be born
if patiently I wait? O me,

o my, I do not like this state
of wordlessness. Turn on the lamp,
light up the dark of writer’s cramp,
and fill the blankness of my slate.

1 Comment

Your Stories

The days I turn wild and rageful are

the days I long to spend with you

I long to see your glorious mind

to hear your stories of lost time

the days I turn to madness are

the days that I feel shackled

to the bonfires of my bosses

to the planks of those hallways

that lead nowhere. I return.

daily I collect paper

like ants collecting the sands of the earth

on their backs

I return,

mad and burnt by the monotony

burnt by this never-ending trail

of the mad, of the stuck, of the gluttony; the dreams of others

I carry on my shoulders and

I return

spent and burnt with the agony of longing

to hear your wonderful stories.

© [Jeanette Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.wordpress.com], [2012]. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, artwork, or photo’s without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Jeanette Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.wordpress.com] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


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