I don’t really believe in writer’s block, as I try to engage in the written word in some fashion every day. Some days, this means reading; other days, staring out the window or taking a walk. However, I do believe that not everything I’ve written is worthy of publication, and I’m very self-critical, going through draft after draft hoping to get things “right.” . . . Please visit my website, www.barbaracrooker.com to see new work (and the Poem of the Month) via the button marked “Poems Online” on the right.
Late May near Charlottesville, and the Blue Ridge mountains
loaf along to my left, wrapped in their usual haze. The sky
is a blank sheet, untroubled as a baby’s sleep. A cardinal
twangs out his notes of cheer; he has no truck with irony and post-
modernism, and a bluebird—bluer than blue—flashes about the grass
in his cloak of sky. The twin bags of doubt and self-loathing I have
been dragging around all week start to grow lighter. A breeze gently
riffles the pages of the underbrush, and all the words I’ve been looking for
assemble themselves on the lawn. I just have to coax them onto paper,
the shy little darlings. But a gust of wind blows up, and they’re gone.
from my book Small Rain (Purple Flag Press, 2014)
©2017 Barbara Crooker
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