Writer’s Block No Crutch

A block of wood, no writer's block.

A block of wood, no writer’s block.

Writer’s Block No Crutch

Writer’s Block — there’s no such thing;
it’s an excuse to take a break.
Have you heard of Plumber’s Block?
Meat Cutter’s Block when trimming steak?

Writers and poets should not say
that Writer’s Block caused them to fail
to make money, achieve success,
receive acceptances by mail.

Writer’s Block is a piece of wood
with holes to store pencils and such.
The phrase was never intended
for writers to use as a crutch.

© 2014 Freeda Baker Nichols

FIND HAPPINESS day 25 napowrimo

FIND a word and write it down;
HAPPINESS is a true rhyme.
WHEN ever your muse acts a clown,
YOU may write poems anytime.
WRITE about lemon, also lime–
A mountain or a pantomime.
POEM should make you smile, not frown.

Spins When the Wind Blows

Spins When the Wind Blows

Copyright 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols

An Adagem–a variation of the Acrostic.  The first words of the
lines when read downwards convey a special message. They
are shown in bold letters.

Spins in the Wind

Spins in the Wind

Baby Bobwhite’s Lullaby

Cougar 008

 

The daddy quail was singing to his young
a brand-new song no other bird had sung.
He sang a baby bobwhite lullaby–
but then he hushed when Tom, the cat, appeared.
He flew away and hid from Tom’s keen eye.
Old Tom Cat was the only thing he feared.
A brand-new song no other bird had sung,
the daddy quail was singing to his young.

Copyright 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols

Blueblood

My grandmother.
Her braided hair wound around
her head twice. Her blue eyes
smiled when her lips did.
She sang delightfully–
like the voice of a robin in April.
Her hands were warm and strong.
They made awesome chocolaty
sweets! She gave me hugs–
whether I wanted them or not.
Her dog, Bulger, toothless and cranky,
was a bulldog. The highest breed.

Copyright, 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols

Christmas Hope

I cut the tree and pulled it up the path
where boots had left imprints in drifts of snow.Footprints in snow 009 

A song of love inside my heart released
old memories that stirred my soul to move
like dancing stars around a velvet vest.
So long ago I walked this way with him
and wore a gown of red with velvet vest
to find a tree just right for only two.
We cut it down with sharpened axe of steel
and laughingly foot-raced each other home.
He took the star I made of wrinkled foil
and placed it high upon the cedar limb.
We had no gifts beneath the tree that year;
without a job we barely had our food–
and so we knelt and turned our hearts to God.
Today, I took my handkerchief and wiped
small flecks of snow away from blurry lens,
adjusted frames of gold behind my ears,
as silently the falling flakes of snow
soon hushed the sound of tears inside of me.
At home, I put the dull and jagged axe
away to use another Christmas time.
The faded star of wrinkled foil still glows
above my tree where hope is shaped like bells
I cut from crumpled velvet vest of red.

c Copyright, 2012, Freeda Baker Nichols

 

 

Wild Azaleas

I found the wild azaleas growing pink
as cheeks hot-flushed with fever from a cold.
I drew the water for my mother’s drink
and placed the petals in a vase of gold.
I watched her shaking hands turn pale and dry
and move along the rim of china vase,
and then extend just as in days gone by
to mine.  No one can fill my mother’s place.

Wild Azaleas

Wild Azaleas

Please do not bring me roses white or red
nor wipe away my tears that fall in sheets
to cover her new cemetery bed.
In Heaven she now walks on golden streets
   while I go down a dark and dusty trail
   in search of pink azaleas for my pail.

c Copyright, 2012, Freeda Baker Nichols