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 …
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.
Aww, this poem is so cute and a little heartbreaking and a little exactly how I feel as a writer!ReplyDelete
New follower stopping by from WriteOnCon!
Love this so much! It really is hard work.ReplyDelete
I enjoyed this so much. My little boys are on a Dr. Seuss kick right now. I feel like I open my mouth and Dr. Seuss spills out for at least an hour after I put down the last book each night. :) I read yours out loud to my boys just now--I didn't tell them the author. The 6 year old's mouth dropped open, "You found another one of his books?" LOL!ReplyDelete
What a compliment. Tell them thanks.Delete