The blank page,

so intimidating to writers,

used to be a joke.

Plain white, solid-bleached,

with some-rag-content-or-other,

it rustles forward

from the whiteout of memory.

We’d look at it as kids.

“What’s this?” one would ask

an unsuspecting victim.

And after the usual shrug or “I dunno”,

he’d explain, “It’s a polar bear,

eating vanilla ice cream

in a snowstorm!”

But some literalist would object:

“No way!

You’d still be able to see

his black nose and eyes!”

The defender of the gag would retort,

“Not if the storm was really bad!”

Meanwhile, apart from this exchange,

at a desk in the far corner,

I sat alone

with a blank sheet of paper,

withdrawn, like a polar bear

in a snowy cave.

I’d fill that arctic field

with black or blue scribbles,

a blizzard of words,

that I relished like ice cream.

09/26/2001

Posted on 09/26/2001
Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt