Writer's Bloc
by Ray Greenblatt

____Body clenched for months
____with mittens we try to clutch
____the transparent word.

____Humidity wraps round us
____hot towels obscuring the eye
____our achievement a few drips.

My inspiration lies as flat
as that new rolled field,
not a sprig, a twig sneaking up.

My body a sack of bones
with no dance to it
not a jog, not a kick,
not two bones to knock together
for one dismal tone.

My still poem is a soundless scream
in a terrifying dream
not a peep, not a word,
only breaking awake
in a sweat, absurd.

Copyright 2021 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.