How Red Sneakers Changed My Life

I've spent the past ten summers of my life in Ha'il, Saudi Arabia, where my dad worked as a college professor. My mom, my sisters and I moved to Pakistan, because education is a big problem there for people like us who never got the hang of Arabic. Anyway, my dad moved back home last year, which means no more vacationing in Saudi Arabia. I miss it, and I don't miss it. I miss the silence of the desert, how the ringing of the phone and doorbell was a special occasion, the hot, dry wind whipping my face, everyone dressed in black and white wherever you went. That's what summer will always mean to me.  The summer air coils itself around our house Winds along the white trunk of the eucalyptus tree In our front yard Whispers through its ghostly leaves Makes them dance -just out of reach. The summer wind licks my face A candle flame, caressing me in the darkness. It smells of dried-up twigs and withered leaves Desert plants that have learn

I've been trying to get this poem written for more than a year now. I know what I want to write about and I've had random bursts of inspiration plenty of times, but they always sputter out sooner or later leaving me with a  collection of absolutely revolting poetry. The Idiot's Guide to Writing Poetry talks about how the key to writing good poetry is to focus on objects and use them to describe emotions and feelings, instead of using too many adjectives and adverbs. Why can't I write anymore? Is it writer's block? Then again, I'm hardly a writer. I've got so much on my mind lately that when it actually comes down to it, when I'm sitting down with a blank sheet of paper in front of me, NOTHING comes out. And whatever does, ends up sounding silly! I've also read that it's a good idea to let a poem you've just written rest for a while. Leave it alone for a couple of weeks and when you next take it out, it'll have grown into something el