I’m bone dry, inhibited,
desolate and derivative,
but revisiting is prohibited
by the Poets’ Parliament,
in triplicate.
They often forget.
I, supplicant, wish for it
– my due-parade
of rhymes and images,
witless tittering,
or labyrinthine reminiscences.
I pray to Consciousness,
patron God of Atheists,
to grant me limitless
quips and barbs and tips,
and a scrivener’s inky lips,
chewed from the digital
equivalent of broken pen nibs.
Silver-buttoned barrister,
advocate for what I meant,
push back those old doors,
and let me right in
to rant and rage,
to howl in pain,
to thunder and boom,
and tilt the wigs
of bureaucrats,
clerks, and ministers
who block my re-entry
into the artists’ womb.
It does not flow.
The watershed is hopeless.
But, what a sight,
water breaking at birth,
sea-born, seaborne,
in the ebb, I am reborn,
in the flow, on the floor,
the mewling Poet
was born to roar,
“To create is to be blessed.”
Lay bare
and be judged
by the rest.
© CG Tenpenny, 2021.
Creativity has a life-cycle.