Log in

No account? Create an account
Previous Entry Share Next Entry


I have written too many words today
and now I’m out.

They needed to be written. The book won’t write itself.
This is how I earn
whatever fraction of a cent
they pay me for every letter.

The problem is that now I’m out of words
and have started to forget the names of things
like that thing, right over there,
the gray one
that isn’t a toaster.

I turn on the radio in search of words.

It doesn’t help.

The radio’s words are all “jobless rate” and “insider trading.”
I can’t do anything with that
like trying to fill a dry well up
with salt.

There are no words growing in the garden
and reading is unsettling
those words echo too much
their footfalls sounding in an empty hall
with no words of my own to muffle them.

And the worst part—
the very worst—
the fear that now I am deprived of prose
and will be forced to communicate in poetry
or worse yet

interpretive dance.

Originally published at Tea with the Squash God. You can comment here or there.


It seems so unfair
that your realized fears are
so pleasant for us


Dressed all in black
colors gone as words dry up
Ursula Dances

We fans responding
snap our fingers at the screens
lost in our fan awe


I had words until the sneezes came

now I cheer where your words have been
carefully, where my words had been
downwind and seen where our words have been

and cheered, destroy my hankie
and bleered, destroy my poetry

these sneezes are not sane

Oh dear. I thought I was the only one suffering from that.

*pours you a nice cup of tea*

*pours a bucket of clean creative water into your well*

I would definitely watch Ursula's Interpretive Dance. Perhaps to go with the podcast? Interpretive dance of how yet another food looks like vomit?

No, No you do not. Trust me on this. You do not want to see her dance.

*I* do not want to see her dance. And I say this all with love.

And so does her mother....

Love this. Absolutely love this.

I ran out of words some time ago because of grief and hurt; couldn't write. After a few months I got them back and I had the distinct impression that they were like smug cats, sure of their welcome and ready to be petted.

I'd pay to see the interpretive dance solution.

You know.

Just sayin' ;-)

The the the and and and but. Chickpea cardamom turmeric yellow saffron Mountain Dew. Tectonics. DNA. Ribosomes. Riboflavin. Vitamins Lucy alcohol booze cider apples oranges bananas yellow again fruit marbles black glass probability. Green glass doors book floors walls meerkats but not lions. Pumbaa but not Timon. Cookies chocolate chiip Oreos milk fruit glasses spectacles spectacular spectacular Moulin Rouge salmon mousse filet cat tags Downton Abbey REDWAAAALL!

There, have some words.

*snaps* Beautiful, man. Deep.

Words flew away on fugitive wings,
Adrift, they circle never alighting.
They dance on the tip of the tongue,
Intangible, invisible as they nibble
On the edge of minds too numb to heed
Their gentle pattering.

I have found a book on Robert the Bruce that is so badly written I cannot believe the writer does not have some sort of deep seated hatred for the reader. I am saving it as a last resort if I am completely and absolutely out of words. It's like the pupa.

Oh my, please not so much with the interpretive dance. I'd gladly take more poetry, though!

I just love the random, unexpected things you post. :D

My words only come
as a Mocking Muse
who laughs as plot bunnies are loosed.

They are small and grey
adorable, cute,
until you see the teeth.

*offers plot bunny*

Not interpretive dance! Anything but interpretive dance! last time I went to an interpretive dance, they had to pay me to watch it. It was like a car wreck, but not nearly as exciting.

Y'all are watching the wrong interpretive dances. Ever seen Dance Your Ph.D.? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B2u9eAzk7TU

oh GOD why did I not know this existed while I was writing my PhD thesis???