No Poem - Beverly Koepplin

Might as well throw the ink on the wall, splat,

watch it run down in thick ribbons to pool on the floor.

Sure, a million chimpanzees on keyboards can write an epic book,

but I cannot form one line of words that would dance on my tongue.

My brain is as dry as a desert, a barren brown land

where nothing grows, nothing flows, and sand scatters before the winds.

The gullies are filled with cracks upon cracks, like colorless mosaics,

waiting for the waters to smooth themselves out, waiting for relief.

If I cannot do this, write one line, then who am I?

I cannot reinvent myself yet again, spin a new me.

There is not time enough left in my life, there is not will enough.

So I too will wait for the life-giving forces, the moist warm air that nurtures.

When that time comes, I will throw the ink on the wall again

and watch it run down and form words on the floor.

And I will pick them up and string them together to make a poem

and shout it from the highest mountain top – this is me!!!!!!

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