Saturday, July 19, 2014


I read these poets

who bare their souls                                                              

with the depth of their poetry

that's how it goes.

As I write - my hand goes limp

I can't begin to scratch out words                                                   
to describe my crying heart.

So strange - I can't begin to

create the words to

release my pain - contained

in a vessel dark and deep 


Dull notes press against my head

but no music plays.

Just twisted notes clang and shrill

fill my body until I can no longer stand                                     

it.  There  is no rhythm  to the notes

The grating noise brings me no nearer

to meaning that I can write.

If only the noise would be still.



Only then can I find the strength to 


Still - and again my hand goes limp.

The pealing of bells finally awakens me.

I stare at my blank page and 

try to begin again.

Copyright  2014  Suzannah Wolf Walker    all rights reserved