20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers



Sometimes I think I need to step aside,
relax, and let the words come as they may,
not coax them from the caves wherein they hide.

Another writer understands the pride
I feel when words come fast, light up my day.
I think, though, that I need to step aside,

and to allow them their wide berth, their slide
from visibility to sheaths of gray.
I won’t coax them from caves wherein they hide,

although I cannot easily abide
the fickleness of words and how they play
with my desire to write. I’d step aside

more gracefully if I knew they would ride
onto my screen and let me have my say.
They sometimes live in caves and need to hide

from all my yammering. I now confide
words’ power held over me, and so I stay
in my world waiting for my muse to stride
near:  You no longer have to step aside.

(a villanelle)

Sarah’s Challenge


Writing without being present to give

life to the words and sounds to the senses,

a child writing forever, through a sieve

of adulthood. Writing, no defences,

no beginning, no end. Explanation?

Should writer need ask for reason – enough

to say driven by some aberration

of gene, Muse or some other mystic stuff.

Not author not playwright not a poet

no description encompasses this drive

to express the very nature of it –

Better part of me writing to survive

than all those thoughts be stuck inside my head

and I be sad, unfulfilled till I’m dead.


Caution: writer talking

Get up and at it

immediately as if

writing for my life.


Writing for your life?

Why is this so important?

Writing keeps me sane.


Writing keeps you sane?

Who would I be without it?

This is who I am.


This is who you are?

Then what are you doing here?

Get up and at it.


The Artist

The Artist
To Margaret

At lunch this afternoon a writer-friend
showed me her art. Two talents wrapped up tight
in one — the writer and the artist blend.

Unfair, I rued, that she has coins to spend
in two banks while I pull the weeds and fight
that nagging writers’ block. My new-found friend

read poems I had written, said to tend
the garden where the sunshine casts its light.
This one, the artist-writer, knows to blend

her gifts, to offer compliments, to send
more possibilities my way. My sight,
at lunch this afternoon when a writer-friend

showed me that both of us have much to lend,
was limited. We’ll see our books take flight.
The artist-writer knows so well to blend

creative solitude with business trend.
At lunch this afternoon a writer-friend
said: Artists, with their words or paint, do blend.


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