Sometimes it seems the poems don’t come.
I pretend that I don’t know why;
resort to cliché –
– They’re like buses …
– It’s a muse thing …
– The moment has to be right …
and other blatant
flagrant
lies.

In truth I know
why the poems don’t come.
It’s because of Stuff.
Stuff gets in the way.
Stuff distracts.
Necessary Stuff, like work.
Chosen Stuff, good Stuff:
friends; this band; that band;
the things you do because It’s Right.
Beautiful loved Stuff that moves around the house
talking, singing, chuntering;
appearing behind me to happily plant
a kiss
on my ungracious head.

Yes, it’s Stuff that gets in the way,
devours the time,
occupies the space
where the poems want to be.

But … even that is a lie,
or at best half-truth.

For without Stuff
without beauty and busy and friendship and love
without family and tension and annoyance and
Stuff
there would be no point
no muse
no reason or rhyme.

Stuff may delay, but it cannot stop;
Stuff is source
as much as block.

You can’t blame the Stuff
for not taking small time;
for stopping up ears
and screwing closed eyes;
for shutting down heart
and blanding out soul.
Stuff does not have
that final word
on how you choose
to look
listen
and learn;
on what you let in
and what you close down.