Writer’s Grief


A seething thought
In the absence of an audience to clinically dissect
A body of work or acclaim the light
Seen through a gaping pupil

Words will sometimes be, a little hard on the tongue
And a little puzzling for grey-white knots
Yet this scenic drive through the traffic
Needs a clutch and the first gear to master
And verse punches a little awe – mighty at times
From the opus in front and makes a writer
A little obese in heart and basking in a fat stream
Of 20/20 vision, of a roused beholder

And while one star is born, another 99
Are making little stellar formations
On a 1960s vintage type-writer
Searching for a moonlit night
To shoot away to Orion’s nebula

Wishing upon a miracle……