It’s so easy to write, #1

Like teeth in extraction,

  the thoughts from my head

come grudgingly forward

  and flop on the pad.

Some flowing, or simple,

  or short, or obtuse,

All bent to the end

  of forming a noose

‘round the neck of the author,

  the writer, that’s me,

who’ll end up swinging

  from his own cedar tree.

It’s so easy to write, #3

Sometimes the words refuse to budge

from the back corner of my attic warehouse,

and need to be strapped and trucked out

to the forward loading dock and lowered onto cognizance

as one might move a refrigerator or other cumbersome object.

It’s so easy to write #2

Words alive

from head, then hand,

then onto paper flow,

caring naught

for love or hate,

emotions high or low.

Just words to read, to use,

to understand, and lo!

the meanings clear and bright,

for other minds to know.

Connotations, good or ill,

do deal our friends the blow.

Injustice

is their very being,

yea, even as they sow

their seeds of innocence or guilt,

for reactions, quick or slow.

But words alive

can be such sport

with the big word book in tow.

It’s so easy to write, #4

Weary

from the words inept,

the body, mindless, falling,

bends to earth and breaks

beneath the belly of an empty ball point pen.

It’s so easy to write, #5

I feel the words there,

  their rasping fingers scratching,

    trying to release the catch

      that holds the spring

        that springs the trap

        at the entrance to my brain.

But the digits’ non-relenting

  renders nothing unto paper.

Conscious thought in verse

  is doomed again to nonexistence.

It’s so easy to write, #6

The words, the words,

come see the words

unable to emerge.

They’re caught between

the slimy gray

though furious the urge

to break away and run amuck

and leave their inky trails.

How fast they’re bound

by well-known block,

no writer’s cramp need fear.

They won’t get out again this day,

our friends, the words,

not here.

It’s so easy to write, #7

Tensely huddled pen and fingers

haunting the empty page,

waiting a word from the brain

to drain the pen, and not strain the fingers,

filling the empty page.

All I write are words.

Never mind that meanings are unclear,

or sometimes interfere with thought

that isn’t trained to wrench the wildest innuendo

from beneath the facial text.

I just like the sounds. Zounds!  Sounds!

Sounds just lying on the page,

all the more audible for having never been heard,

but just seen, lying on a page,

screaming at you with the tiniest of voices

so loudly that you cry,

yet never jarring your eardrums,

but tempting you to pleasures beyond

with only an extra syllable or two.

It’s so easy to write, #8

Words abound

in other space

besides the place

my mind calls home.

They revel

in profound exchange

beyond the range