Writer’s block

How does one deal with a brain that is blank
No interest in anything: dead?
How can one enthuse and react and excite
When the vacancy hangs like a cloud?
How can one exist in a life that seems full
Yet a whirlpool of nothingness looms?
How can one write when one’s mind can’t be found
When the Muse shuts all doors with dull sound?

I’ll sit here awhile and I’ll tap the keyboard
Try to shift torpor from my brain.
I’ll struggle to share the Lethe I feel,
Try to energise life from the depths;
And if even that fails, at least I’ll have tried
For my audience, a verse to provide.

Poem and photo copyright Englepip©

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A walk in the Mountains

Mountain fog

The cloud creeps down the mountainside 

Belly to the ground, as though sniffing its prey. 

Nothing is sacred; nothing is safe 

From the cold, damp fogginess of its intrusion, 

Penetrating every crack and crevice;

A pervading darkness and dankness. 

The warm air holds its breath, prescient

Of its obliteration, as it capitulates 

To condensation and the first drizzle

Transpires as from the ground

Precipitating a cold and vicious, 

Slapping rain, that soaks to the core. 

For now, the cloud has won, but we shall

Look for the sun and the rainbow to come.

Poem and photo copyright Englepip©