The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~Vladimir Nabakov

Friday, August 1, 2008


I counted the numbers one, two, three,
on the colored blocks of my busy little bee.
She stacked them high as far the eye can see,
the fundamental blocks of learning A, B, C.

Wrapped up in her excitement I was not aware
the few blocks on the ground, oh boy BEWARE!
Hopping over them I stumbled hearing a crack,
tripping and tumbling, falling to hurt my back.

Stiff and sore I thought of writing her joys,
As I shook off quickly the writers block,
hammering noise, on the door they knock.
Interrupted once more I was unable to sit,
annoyed and restless, boy was my pot now lit.

Spent all day thinking of the style to write,
laptop still off and is nowhere in sight.
Busy with guests as I given them my time,
my mind on the work of text and rhyme.

Finally evening, moment of quiet hour,
I was fed, rested even had a long hot shower.
Pulling up a chair, eager to type with hype,
I had soon discovered we were out of power.

Grabbing a paper pad I hurried quick,
I got seated in corner by the candles flick.
tiresomely discovered my pen was out of ink,
my booming laugh exploded at the bombs last tick.

I surrendered to the types of all my blocks,
interruptions, the wooden and even clocks.
Another day passed and concluded so fast,
Somehow I managed to write my words at last.

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