Dr. Seuss' Birthday Tribute

In honor of Dr. Seuss' birthday a little tribute I wrote last year. It's a little of this and a little of that, but it might bring a laugh for my writerly gaffs.

At the far end of the table

where the toast crumbs lack butter

and the grimy dishes gather in piles of clutter

and no speech is heard except hollow mutters

was the quarter of the Solitary Writer.

And deep behind the toast crumbs, you may see,

if you dare believe, instead of flee,

where the Writer once wrote

what dreams she dared float

before someone stole the hope away.

Who was the Writer?

And why did she work?

And why was she solitary in midnight lurks

at the end of the table where the toast crumbs lack butter?

The mouse still sets in the murk.

Ask it. It knows.

The mouse won’t speak.

Don’t left click its button.

It rests on the pad, no glutton

for devious cluckin’.

Its batteries glow on low,

don’t you know,

except for certain dull Tuesdays

in the middle of winter

when the moon casts its rays

toward the laptop’s dark screen.

Then the mouse might reveal

the fate of the Solitary Writer

before hope faded away.

It all started way back …

Such a long time ago …

Way back in the days when the agents were keen

and editors did glean

the words to forward careers most unlean.

When six figure advances appeared by the dozen

and publishers said welcome dear cousin.

That was when the glorious words first poured

onto paper and laptop, from opening lines to finishing chapters.

The bright sparkling words, volumes unmoored,

producing not tears but laughter.

And among the words, the nouns did play

before the hope did die away.

The verbs hopped and rumpled, all active by far.

With no tellerous was-ing to lower the bar.

To agents the query letters were let fly most trustful.

Until day by day, month by month

came the sickening smack by the gutful

of scabulous ‘no’s’, so disgustful.

The Writer said nothing. Just hung down her head.

No more words. No more nouns. No more verbs to be tried.

She silently faded away, the hope had lied.

Hearts of pride can only bleed.    

On the screen, the curser blinked one thing …

“Read”

Until someone like you reads a whole awful lot,

it won’t be bought.

So read for the Writer. Treat her words with care.

Give them much praise. Put forth comments that dare. 

Let no book lack.

Then the Writer

 and all of her friends

 may come back.