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A Writer's Block

With pen poised over the blank white sheet,
Waiting to receive writings, inspirational or automatic,
Through some sphere of phychic channeling,
My mind remained still.

Bleak snow-covered tundra in an artic freeze,
The whiteness of the paper blinds the eye of my imagination.
Feeling the chill breath of solitude sweeping
Across the barren flats of reflection,
I cap my pen and swear to never write again.

Then, faintly seen, upon a distant slope of thought,
A vague impression, a word, a sentence lights the
Winter's sky; line by line trails of creative expression
Mysteriously appear across that stark and frozen plain.

Like some great river's ice broken up at first breath
Of spring, a poem is freed to float.

poem by Lynn W. Petty
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Dot On White Sheet!

Green leaves of spring are not there;
Colourful flowers of all seasons are gone;
Only white snow covers all in winter!
Winter snow thick or thin is white sheet
That covers all colourful things long!

Scrubbing snow on the road is a daily exercise
To clear route for all vehicles to go smooth;
All covered with fur cloth move in the street;
This white snow is like a white sheet of paper;
All the movements on it are the dots of scribble!

Writers are hungry of white paper to write on;
Poets are fond of writing poems on white sheet;
And the matters on white paper are men on snow;
But nobody likes winter as all are for colourful life!

poem by Ramesh T A
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~Cold

! Lost raindropps in the snow
Covered in ice cold regret
Never-ever to be found
In the chill of Winter-Set
Frozen are the rainbows
Made of colour spectrum lights
Covered up by dancing
Snowflakes
Of the blanket white-covered night

poem by Theodora Onken
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Blank Sheet Of Paper

I'm just a blank sheet of paper
This fool's about to write you a letter
To tell you that he's sorry
For the way he did you wrong
To ask for forgiveness
For leaving you alone
He's been looking down at me seems like forever
he takes the top on and off his pen
It's like he can't decide
Just what he wants to say
If he'd just tell the truth
I'd be on my way
Chorus
But he just stares at me
And i just stare at him
He don't know where to start
To say he doesn't want it to end
And now it's one hour later (four hours later)
I am still a blank sheet of paper
Sunlight is shining through the curtains
He's almost asleep pen in hand
There's a tear in his eye
That refuses to fall
If it would land on me
That would say it all
Repeat Chorus
And he just stares at me
And i just stare at him
He don't know where to start
To say he wants it back again
And now one broken heart later
I am still a Blank sheet of paper

song performed by by Tim McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Art Of Title

The description, the distinction 
The display, the design
The divider, the destination

It could be a word, it could be a long sentence
It could be straight forward,  it could be the study itself
It could come in the blink of eye, it could be debated for days 

The tell sign, the trade mark
The teaser, the track
The theme, the talk

It could be brilliant, it could be plain
It is well thought, it could be just a joke
It is a true philosopher, or just for formality tag

The word, the emphasis 
The color, the tone
The size, the graphic

The rule of attention, the opposite direction
The bold line, the creative mind
The first impression, the face of decision

Don't judge a book by its title

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Blank Mocking Paper

I stare at this paper so white
I just don't know what's so right
I want to write on it
I would love to write a sonnet
I just am alone with the green lines
The red now just starts to shine
Blank as my mind is this sheet
Please can my pen and it just meet
Instead of me sitting here dumbstruck
As if I almost got hit by a truck
Ink blue as the sky not writing
Instead on its end I keep biting
I don't want to right about a caper
So I’ll just stare at this Blank Mocking Paper

poem by Zachary Clark
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Winter In The Artic

There is winter in the Artic and,
I do mix up daily with people around to learn a lot;
But loaded with excitements in the muse of your lov,
And playing with the cunning tricks of the sky-line is my muse.
I have exaggerated figures in my mind to share with you,
And like the cold of the Artic to win your love;
But as cordial as my sheep in the land of my muse is your love,
For the winter in the Artic is all that you are used to.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The time I discovered myself a Poet

I wouldnt say I was patient
but I have an interest in poetry
Is it the dawning of a new error
or will the sky be grey
I write how I see life and it is not always pleasant

I like to write abou experiences that I have been through
my poetry has changed as I ave changed
I see it as a hobby as I write in my grange
My poetry is mainly fiction but I also write about things that are true

I am not a person that would share alot of enthusiasim
poetry is a work of art
on each sheet of blank paper
I put my mark
Poetry is simple in this world of sin

I am not into shakesphere
what I write is authentic
the imagination on paper creates magic
a poem can change an atmosphere

I would like to say my poems mean something
my poems are meant to sting a mind
I want my poems to create pictures for people who are blind

poem by Natasha Browne
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A March Snow

Let the old snow be covered with the new:
The trampled snow, so soiled, and stained, and sodden.
Let it be hidden wholly from our view
By pure white flakes, all trackless and untrodden.
When Winter dies, low at the sweet Spring's feet
Let him be mantled in a clean, white sheet.

Let the old life be covered by the new:
The old past life so full of sad mistakes,
Let it be wholly hidden from the view
By deeds as white and silent as snow-flakes.

Ere this earth life melts in the eternal Spring
Let the white mantle of repentance fling
Soft drapery about it, fold on fold,
Even as the new snow covers up the old.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Snow

The voice of the tree gets frozen
and the snow falls on the heart of the winter

it has been broken
as always
but the craziness of lover and poet goes on

if the surreal dreams
touches the corridor
of my reality

I promise
I will not ask much from winter
an eternal coldness may be

it is naked
as always

no warmth
no warmth

Dear,

snow is falling everywhere
on the streets
on the trees, rooftops
and on the mirror
an ivory white
something....

and I'm breathing in
the dust of the snow
like I breathe the poetry of Mayakovosky

It pains
the long night
a broken naked winter

no! you can't be so heartless
neither I can...

Dear,
I have been like a pale winter
where snow is covering
my city of Veronese

but my frozen hand is trying to write

your name on it...!

poem by Jyotishman Debnath
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In the Speed of Time

Again the sun painted the sky blue, orange, gray;
Then through the castles of clouds a full moon shines,
With every earth’s breath let the wind chimes play,
While the birds dwell in their leafy shrines,

Below the horizon in the heat of this long thirsty summer,
Golden-green hays crept to the dawn of autumn,
While the big appetite of gnawing mammals kept waiting,
The chill of winter came in the very speed of time.

As each sunrise unveils the snow-covered mountains,
Patches of snow pursed in to icy-pocket of the river,
While the scents of wild flowers perfume the atmosphere,
The choir of birds now welcome the birth of spring.

poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
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In Winter's Arms

Winter holds me with his arms of icy white,
and kissed my breath with frost upon the pane.
Subdued by touch of winter's frigid hand,
I pray for spring to find me once again.

O'wind, you whistle to the winter's tune.
Your melody is heard 'pon day and night,
but one day spring will come to rescue me,
and wisk away your song of winter's blight.

O'tree, you're frozen in the winter's dream.
Your leaves have left you 'neath a moon of white,
but when my prayers are answered 'pon spring's dawn,
you'll thaw beneath its sun with warm delight.

O'field, your harvest has been reaped and spent ~
and winter blankets you 'neath snowy mounds.
Yet one day soon in springtime's rising mist
you'll feel the greening of your earth rebound.

Winter holds me with his arms of icy white,
and kissed my breath with frost upon the pane ~
but deep within I somehow always know,
that spring will come and find me once again.

poem by Hazelmarie Elliott
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Blank Page

Blank Page

This new blank page, a word processor page, I cannot touch. I ought to leave it this
way, just look at it and dream of what I could have written on it. If I delet the words
I have written now, it will be blank again, no history, no crumbled up sheet of paper
in the wastebasket. For now it is too late but I might erase it when I come to an end.
My wife was in Johannesburg once for surgery, being born in Congo but light skinned
and travelling on a Portuguese passport, she boarded a bus for the blacks.
Great consternation, she was told by police to go on the white only bus since she
was Portuguese. Racism and anti Semitism are so stupid, it makes no sense, one race
thinks it is superior to others. Now it is the Moslems who are feeling the surge
of ignorance. We want them to be more like us and not Insist of doing their own things.
In Israel, for instance the European Jews feel vastly superior to Arab Jews, This in a state
that is an artificial construct. The culture of Europe in the Middle East. We know Israel,
as it exist today must come to an end. So there I said it, this white virtual sheet has been
befouled by an opinion no one wants to know about. So what do I do know? Erase this
page so it is blank again and I can write about the moon?

poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Really Impatient Poem

Some poems are impatient things!
Yes, they pace up and down!
And while they're waiting in the wings
They're prone to wear a frown...
One poem woke me up one night
And dragged me out of bed!
I trembled on the floor with fright,
Enraged and seeing red...

The poem stood there, pen in hand,
With paper I could use,
Determined I should understand
That I must not refuse...
'I've waited long enough! ' he said,
'Get started straight away! '
I started crawling back to bed,
But he forced me to stay!

He held my feet and wouldn't quit!
'O.K.! ' I told him straight,
He spoke the title bit by bit...
I said, 'That's great... just great! '
He babbled on and line by line,
I wrote it word for word,
Of course I know it wasn't mine,
For that would be absurd...

'Thank God, it's done! ' the poem smiled,
'At last it's time to rest...'
He dropped my feet, no longer wild,
As if he had been blessed...
'One day the world will read this verse!
My thoughts in every home! '
Forgive me if I'm feeling terse,
He was one nutty poem!

Denis Martindale, copyright, July 2012.

poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mother Nature Can Be Fickle

Winter’s cold is Mother Nature’s way
Of saying, lie with me now, lay your head on my breast
It’s snow, a blanket under which to lay
Neath a crystal cover, enjoying winter's cold caress

Frost rimed windows … Mother Nature’s art
Icy abstractions painted with frosty finesse
Crystalline concoctions that form only a part
Of Mother Natures wonderful winter largesse

Ice coated limbs of slope shouldered trees
droop drowsily down as if fallen asleep
Unable to sway in winter’s frigid breeze
Appear as white mounds, when the snow drifts deep

The stillness one hears on cold winter nights
Broken by the sudden crack of ice laden boughs
The ethereal essence of undulating northern lights
Headlights in the sky for Nature’s snowplows

All is withdrawn, in awe of Nature’s might
Willingly waiting, deep neath frozen ground
Safely sequestered, from winter’s cruel bite
In warm tunnels and burrows, til spring comes around

Mother Nature invites winter into her domain
Cohabits with coldness, wantonly sleeps with Jack frost
Yet finds cold winter quickly falls to disdain
Invites in the spring…and tells winter to get lost

Mother Nature is fickle…and also the boss!

poem by David Whalen
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Scribbler's Stymie

Pen and paper in sight
I've got no poem to write

Staying up all night
I've got no poem to write

Although my mind is bright
I've got no poem to write

It's windy out tonight, should I go fly a kite?
I've got no poem to write

My ceiling, it is white
I've got no poem to write

It's 4: 59! Five, but not quite
I've got no poem to write

In your arms I'd feel so light
I've got no poem to write

I've had no sleep tonight
I've got no poem to write

Will you just hold me tight?
I've got no poem to write

Outside it's almost light
I've got no poem to write

It's late, off goes my light
I've got no poem to write

poem by Julia Grace
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A Writer’s Block

Sometimes when I listen to a song,
a word or a line in the lyrics
will prompt a poem from me;
I will then sit with pen in hand
and write something
about love and romance.

Another time something I see
will set my imagination aglow
and inspire me to write
a bit of social history.
However, those in a writer’s block
here is a tip from me,
just write about anything
and you will see how quickly
you will set your imagination free.

29 April 2008

poem by David Harris
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Author's Inspiration

My fingers do not type the words on the page; they do not draw delusions on a thin piece of white lined paper. They are not meant for the works of art to be used and unworthy for. My fingers are worthy enough to paint pictures inside your cognizance, more than painting a paintless sheet that means nothing to me. My fingers work as if every picture I paint in my mind, inspires them to write the unwritten page, to make it a master piece. But not every inspiration inside my mind, will take merely a second to create. It takes time, patience, and art to smear the writings onto a page. Author inspiration is from what comes from the heart; deep and dark, inspring and light - it's as if it was left inside its cage. No freedom, no light, no darkness, no being of a creature that the render of the paper, simply gave up on inspiring the little ones'. It's as if this mere creature was left within a white blank world. No colors to paint, no words to express. An author inspiration is formed when they see or hear other works of art, whether it's music to their ears, movies they wish to be in, life and feelings that they feel or positioned in, or other writings that they write something else about - but as an inspiration from them. An inspiration can be from anything from the outside world, from what happens inside one's life, to what creates such imagination within one's thoughts that coats the page with color and creativity. Anyone can be talented. Anyone can have an inspiration. You just have to feel and be it.

poem by Alicia Meyers
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From the Chinese perhaps

This winter day
the wind is making ripples
even between the stones at the water's edge
and the mist almost hides the tops
of the mountains

only I am listening to the heron's cry

I brought my brush and pen and paper and ink block
but there is no poem here;
Nature is hiding her secrets today
like a silent woman in her winter coat.

I could write how last summer
we stood here laughing together
at the reflection of the moon
trembling in our bowls of rice wine
while the candles drifted down the river
in their paper boats

like this memory

but I shall walk back now
through the winter woods
where the thin trees
are secretly, secretly
preparing for Spring.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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White snow

It had snowed for hours
We remained completely indoors
There was no other go then to confine
Though we all were feeing very fine

It was season’s first fall
We waited for nature’s call
The land was covered with white sheet
The area was deep and clad with many feet

The children came out with no fear
The joyous voice was there to hear
They had their own choice to celebrate
It was wonderful experience to narrate

May be we are representing snow
We have not prepared ourselves to grow
Now as river water is frozen to by Celsius zero
There won’t be any reason for us to feel hero

The relations are frozen to dangerous level
There is hardly anything to project or tell
We have become symbolic as nature
Flowing away from secured line of future

I know every year it may come and snow
The icy winds may be faster to flow
It will send chill waves into bones
The ill waves will never be by gone

I will grow with all sorts of cold and rain
It will be only aimed to get something or gain
Nothing is compared to the quality of nature
As he is totally unaware of it or sure

What will be impact of my cold behavior?
Nothing so far as my nature is known to others
It has deep in our blood and mind
We are not for anything good to find

The cold spell may last long
The snow is part of life and belongs
It may bring fortune little later
When turn into water with complete situation to alter
Though clad completely white over vast area of land
We see no hidden plot from nature’s hand
It is her yearly schedule to be in time as expected
We are here to honor it and positively acted

Though very harsh during complete season
We face it willingly without any reason
It has its own charm and in right place
Complete world is in joy to rush for race

It does not baffle anybody not even local man
They are used to it as normal human
The sports person may have their own inception
The general feeling is for warm welcome and reception

We have into being with reality
Nature has its own cycle and quality
We are not copying any of the hard hit calamities
It has its own inherent inbuilt utilities

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Once Upon A Winter Day

Once upon a winter day
Gray clouds passed swiftly across the sky
As shapely snowflakes fell steadily down,
Covering the land in a dazzling white
Leaving a winter calling card on the ground.

Once upon a winter day
The snow-edged creek silently wept
Near the shadows of the tall pine trees
Trimmed in a glittering white lace,
Creating an impressive display in the breeze.

Once upon a winter day
Branches drooped to the impassable road
Due to the weight of the snow.
Icicles hung from the dormant trees
In view of the shattered daylight glow.

Once upon a winter day
Nothing is heard but rubbing tree limbs
And a stray dog faintly barking,
The vibrant sound of a frightened deer,
A broken tree branch suddenly falling.

Once upon a winter day
The distant snow-covered hills
Loomed in the path of the gloomy sky,
Where the northerly wind briskly growled
As chickadees and juncos fluttered by.

poem by Joseph T. Renaldi
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