Avoiding My Mental Patio - A poem of the travails of Writing like I do.

I've stayed off it,
the new, real-world patio,
trying to avoid the crowd
that would overwhelm its space,
barely enough for two chairs
and a table for writing.

I know they will gather
if I step out there
and try to use it.
The massive mob that dwells
inside my head telling stories,
each demanding their turn now.

But the damned Mental Patio,
where I retreat to so oft,
inside my slime filled skull,
forms up as it pleases,
and they gather up swiftly,
to heckle and jeer efforts.

Such is the case now,
as I tried telling tales
of Scorpio's many dangerous hunts.
They realized the patio'd materialized
inside my imagination's dark domain
where night exists amid daylight.

Billenius just sipped his tea,
sitting calmly as his norm,
but silent for the moment,
save the loud, nasty stares
he tosses at my fingers,
for not finishing his edit.

Scorpio leans over Troy Tanner,
who is boasting about something
involving rats in expensive suits
raising up various dead souls
to do some dark bidding
or take a fool's errand.

The hunter scowls, miffed again.
His tale is long ignored
and this isn't the first,
nor the last interruption suffered
in that story's winding path
to being finished up finally.

C.J. lounges, over by fire-pit,
still sipping his rum drink,
chuckling over the building row,
hoping for some serious fisticuffs
to allow him to stand
and talk about his story.

Others sit about, sulk silently
amid the shadows and slime,
hoping for their turn again
to spring back to life
under the dance on keyboard
my fingers doth slowly mangle.


Each tale tries to emerge,
each player and character vies,
for their little, tiny chance
to rise from the fog-bank
that clouds my mind's eye
and walk in words again.

I cannot force the issues,
and make them queue up
to tell their tales orderly,
as that way lies disasters
long ago discovered by trial,
and madness lies that way.

So I ride the tides,
letting each tale flow out
as it damned well wants,
not trying to force issues,
save in November's chill weeks
when I do NaNoWriMo's thing.

I know this is foolish,
but it seems to work,
for my sanity, at least.
And around my desk's clutter,
the characters find their places
to sit as I write...
Waiting for their chance to speak.

1July2016 -  a befuddled Dyfedd Rex.

Blots of moonlight and spots of ink - a poem of writiing on the porch

Under the waning moon I write
spending another night on the patio
as blots of moonlight dance around
the page my pen races across
falling softly through the barren branches
awaiting spring's invitation to leaf out
and hide from my questing eyes
the spots of ink left behind
as another tale or poem rises
out from the paper slowly indeed
before the dark of new moon.
(2011)