Poetry, Ponies, and a good case of writers block

I've spent the last few days crawling through my poetry convinced that it was about time I did something with it. I have found some interesting work, and some really sucky work (nice language no?).

I was, at one time, very disciplined in my poetry. I found one today that brought the recent lack of discipline home; it's a Sestina. Rather, it was a Sestina before I saved it into a text file and lost every, very important, line break. Today I tried to fix the lines however I managed only to dump the form and create new line breaks.

----

Morning

It has stopped taking me back, my creating you.
Though I do wonder how the truth would hold you,
against a winter morning struck in Technicolor,
with ferries to deliver yesterday's shore
the wake to turn,grain for grain, a lover,
grateful the existence found together, alone.

Only once does life deliver excellence without fail;
here I find you, my truth, laid among driftwood,
telling of this existence, loving loose as gulls float in turn.
Silver flashes through a pacific morning sky,
no further the truth,no nearer to creating you,
could I be, here with the morning, alone,
together with the mist to bathe in
creating you and I,beautiful in simple existence.

How would you hold this awesome truth,
could you adore it as the gull that delivers his due,
making love to the clouds?

Turn your face, hear daybreak deliver our song from mountain's edge,
truth as you'll never feel it bounce off morning's new light,
silver-blue to shine with your existence.

Astonishing in it's simplicity, you and I creating together, alone,
perfect as the morning giving way to day, as a lover might
deliver the first kiss, quiet before morning's rush;
there I feel you most often.

A turn of my head and your voice finds me creating the peace,
of you, of me, the one truth I count on, loving you
in this strange existence where days pass
before the night's turn falls into rights,
lost among man's little truth which lands
too close to lying to create anything less
than denied existence.

Here, now, together, and still, alone in the morning I turn,
a small boy searches rock for rock to deliver perfection
to a collection he'll turn, examine; create a world
where morning delivers truth nearer to love
than any existence he or I, or you, could imagine.

----

I still don't know what to make of it. I know the form, I want to put it back together as it once was however I don't know that I can.

Once again I've let the post sit overnight. My mind is seemingly a dangerous place to live when worried. I think I will put down the pen (figuratively speaking) for a few days. Spend today with the ponies, tomorrow with Rosemary and hope for a bit of sleep in the future...

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