Dark Night of the Unwritten Poem; I select poems for a chappers; would repent but there is no repentance

Sometime last week I felt poetry's preemptive joy, glowworm and firefly in a soft mellowing and I was going to write a few poems. I was sure of it.

Then I didn't. I had my weekend, went to a friend's reading, dealt with computer of the lap issues, drank decaf coffee with extra caffeine, stumbled through Sunday and then unto me the Lord presented Monday, so I said, Good-bye glow.

It's a sad thing to be conscious of, the trammeling over the soul by means of excuses. 

Some jobs create a little space now and then for a draft of a poem. Not this one. I'm down with working at work--no argument from me. They, the man, the boss are paying me and they'll get their money's worth, and then there are the bills and, well, you know that cycle of pay and pay more is more certain than the cycle of seasons, and with nary a crocus or red maple leaf for comfort.

Last night after I collapsed for a sufficient amount of post-work time, I did cut and paste already written poems for a chapbook that just might be published.  I'd been mentally assembling poems for a small grant app and for reasons above (work and winter spring summer fall in checkbook form) missed the deadline.

They weren't the poems I'd first considered for this chappers, but I think they are the right choice.  Not the convenient one, but the best representation of glow and worm and Sarah Sarai in April 2011. When I get feedback from the publisher I'll tell you, share the process (as it were) and maybe in doing so offer penance to my still-lurking spirit. And please know that there is no, Well, maybe it was for the best, when a writer ignores her strong message that art wants out.

It's the bad thing to do. Don't do it. Write. You can write crap, that's not the issue, but write when the spirits haunt you. Okay?

***The ideogram is supposed to mean Soul Killer or something.