Many have struggled for want of a rhyme,
Torn out a hair or two,
Paced endlessly, retreated for days
And several have even sniffed glue.
Some have skipped meals, some eaten twice more,
Some have consumed only tea.
But all have sipped from the Cup of Despair
And unanimously would agree
more eloquence seems, at times, to exude
From the cat’s litter box or a chair;
Enough to write an epic or two
And even have some to spare.
Writer’s Block. Poet’s Pain.
Uncomfortably numb.
Call it whatever. It tends to leave
One feeling just plain dumb.
Well, dry seasons they say, are good for the soul.
It humbles the greatest writer.
And helps you determine what you’d rather be:
A give up-per or a fighter.
But the best thing that a dry season can do
For poet or butcher or baker
Or candlestick-maker or king: it points
A straying heart back to its Maker
