Tag Archives: writer’s block

Writer’s Block #8: Poetry Time

10 Dec


December 10, 2013

It is time once again to resort to  the list of oddball writer’s prompts used by “colleges and universities” around the country and the pickings are getting mighty slim. Today’s prompt: Write a haiku, limerick, or short poem that best represents you (NYU, 2009). This is bad, mighty bad. I am not a poet and I know it. The last time I posted some poetry on this blog was February of 2011. Here it is, in case you have somehow blotted it from your memory:

The Burger King wears a crown.
It is made out of paper.
His face is a waxen mask

Always smiling
“Have it your way.”
My way? But aren’t you the King?

Profound, no? Ok, no. But it has to be better than whatever I am about to come up with.

Writer’s Block #8: Write a haiku, limerick, or short poem that best represents you

This is me.
I have a blog

Hmm. Well, while it fits the description, it frankly sucks. Let’s try that again.

There once was a man from Nantucket, whoseWHOA, whoa, give that another shot.

Rose petal
summer spray

Better, more poetic, but it doesn’t represent me at all.

Oh well, I filled a blog page, so I give up.
And that represents me best of all.


Writer’s Block #7: A Special Routine

6 Nov

November 6, 2013

Well, here I am again. Me vs. the page. Me vs. the blank screen. Me vs. writer’s block. Have I wasted enough time? Yep, once again I need to turn to our nation’s colleges and universities (I must be desperate) and look to the list of bizarre college essays for inspiration.

I didn’t find any, but here we go: Please describe a daily routine or tradition of yours that may seem ordinary to others but holds special meaning for you. Why is this practice significant to you? (Barnard, 2009)

Well, I don’t; really like to talk about this, but I guess maybe it will help me to unburden myself. Maybe it will help me to sleep at night.

One night, years ago, when I was young, my family was leaving the movie theater, capping off a great evening in which we had dinner at a fancy restaurant and saw the opening night of the Mark of Zorro. The city wasn’t as crime ridden as it is now, but even then there were some places you avoided.

It wasn’t too late, the alley not too dark, and our car was parked just across the street. We were happy and probably not paying too much attention or maybe we would never have gone down that alley, seen that man.

He stopped us.
Had a gun.
Demanded mom’s jewelry.
Dad took a step towards him.
The gun blazed.
And I was an orphan.

I swore on their graves that their deaths would not go unavenged.  And every day I pass that alley and leave flowers amongst the cans of garbage and broken bottles and detritus of urban life.

What? Shit, sorry, that’s Batman’s story. I thought it sounded familiar. But seriously, that is a much better story than mine. You don’t want to hear it, it wouldn’t interest you.

What? Really, you do? It probably isn’t half as interesting as you think.

Ok, you asked for it. My special routine?

Every morning I get up early and read a book on the can. That’s it. It’s quiet and no one bothers me.

Hey, I’m no Batman.




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