5-7-5 (take one-hundred-and-sixty-seven : writer’s block)

my mind is a blank
though just five minutes ago
it was full of songs

Fogbound

There’s a fog,
a mist
low on the
moors
I know the words
are there
lost in the swirling
curling clouds
silhouettes
fully formed
shaped
waiting to be found
and shepherded
together
into rounded
prose and rhyme
but there’s a fog
on the moors
a mist that’s descended
upon my mind.

5-7-5 (take fifteen : writer’s block)

grasping for ideas
a tired mind devoid of thoughts
channeling static