On Writer's Block:

I want to play piano with words.

I want to pounce on black keys like small prey does the lion.

I want to play Bach with Whitman, Tchaikovsky with Conroy.

Overcome that which binds me.

All that shackles me.

That great divide between paper and mind.

Where is my ship?

I’ve seen her before. Sailed with her.

Docked there. There at the end of the pier.

I have so easily boarded her before.

Stepped lightly onto her bow.

Teakwood creaking beneath my toes.

Where is she now?

The ocean is vast.

The water is gold, like an apple.

The sun inspiring and the wind calm.

I close my eyes

I summon her home.

Open again. And still she is gone.

Like a mistress who loves me. But doesn’t at all.

I’ve played with her hair. 

Held her for days, it seems.

But now she evades me.

Anchored deep offshore where she cannot be seen.

If only she knew where I could sail her

The waters to which I could thrust her keel forward.

The evenings aboard. With wine and fresh meats.

Though I know all that she wants, still I cannot convince her; 

It’s me who can give it.