A day in the life of a writer. |
A POEM IS ANNOUNCED The Muse knocked at the door Pressed hard on the doorbell And the author, that artist, she heard it well But the call went unanswered. Loud though the chime of time The fast gathering moments The pressure of the hours Mounted with no result, She wouldn't write. The neighbors knew of her secret Her friends well aware Of her badly concealed desires That unshakable itch to produce The best verse she'd ever written. At home, The Declaration from three days ago (Of creating mighty miracles in print) Hadn't stopped dancing in the living room Breaking off now and then to follow her up the stairs Shadowing her happily into her cozy writing nook, All to no avail, she wouldn't write. Resisting the urge, she straightened the pillows That didn't need straightening, then Wrote the grocery list for a pantry Already groaning with food, Overfed the goldfish, Over-exercised the dog, Exhausted the cat with her pacing And The Man as well. When she would tap those words into life, The Greatest Verse of All Time, Remained a secret. Her procrastination was a thing of beauty, And a misery forever. She prayed for the flu, Like all writers do She rejoiced in a snow day Bundled in a blanket, She pressed a pillow to her head Blocked out the shrieks of the Muse. Then came dinnertime Where she served the food That she needn't have cooked Crumbling the bread between her fingers A sudden, strange resolution formed within It's Now or Never And Never is now a scary thing. Ignoring the dishes, she went upstairs Stepped into her writing nook Adjusted the cushion so she and the Muse Could sit with ease, side by side, And began. So that's where our tale ends, With her on the chair And the Muse calling for coffee. Looking over her shoulder Is that shining hope Of powerful verse streaming forth Of lines flowing with beauty And words remembered forever. THE END |