a poet’s lament
What to do with a dead head?
Too bumpy for a bowling ball,
more likely struck than striking.
Dead head seems to go with
dead pit in stomach,
black hole sucking soul,
writer sinking deeper
into chair
trying to write,
dread fear that everything
that can be written has been,
echoing words of others,
begging the question, what’s the blunt
object of a weapon’s lost its point?
(Do you object to object lessons?)
Think now; countless writers have written
of doldrums, becalmed without wind or wave,
the chill feel of sharks circling below.
Ah yesss the sssnake hisssesss, sssacred
unconsssciousss beneath preconsssciouss
under illusssion of consssciousssnesss.
Scaled cavalry comes to rescue or ruin,
hooves muffled with rags to allow skulking
up on poets sulking on objects pointless,
complaining if resulting points draw blood.
Gird your loins if you’ve got them, or you don’t,
there’s a mighty storm brewing.
What ales you now you will long for
when war weary, lightning struck,
or maybe grateful for intoxication.
Now I remember I said if doldrummed,
I’d lay with heavy stone on chest,
bullhide pulled over eyes,
ancient poets’ sensory deprivation.
Inspiration from gods, self, both?
Breathe against dead weight,
heart rate increases pushing precious
oxygen to cerebrum which informs
heart to oxygenate gray cells,
and so it goes;
light blooms
in utter darkness.
~ Wry Welwood
11th of July 2021
Thanks to Samantha Lazar.