Sometimes poetry can be elusive. They can come and visit you unannounced. If you're not willing to embrace the moment and get immersed in it, they'll pass by and you will not have anything out of it. Sitting at the back of the van while sweating like a pig, I felt that moment was elusive. I must not let it slip through my fingers like grains of sand. That gift from my Muse must not go to waste. I keyed in...Read More
Before I drafted a novel, I wrote an essay.
Before I chose the essay, I picked the short story.
Before I made up the story, I sang poetry.
Before I played with rhyme, I made a fan fiction.
Before I pleased co-fans, I jotted a lyric.
Before penning a lyric, my friend was a notebook.
Before my notebook, I used a sketchpad.
On my sketchpad were my strange and out-of-this-world friends.
Before my sketchpad was my colouring book.
And with my colouring book was a box of crayons.
With the crayons I ruined lines, brown, blue, and red.
Before I read Kawasaki, I read Jeff Gerke.
Before I met Gerke, I read Harry.
No, not Mr. Potter. That was earlier.
I meant Wizard Dresden by Jim Butcher.
With Alan Axelrod, I was excited.
And with Twain, I was delighted.
I joined Percy recover the lightning.
This was after Hogwarts by Ms. Rowling.
I was a mutant many years ago.
Then I went to Riverdale because I wanted snow.
Near my pillow, slept the Alps' young Heidi.
In my book shelf, classics retold by Disney.
The road was murky. The fog would not clear despite the futile attempts of the god of the wind to clear it up. The dark could not be penetrated and the goddess of light had become exhausted. The silence was terrorizing instead of peaceful, no song from the Muse could cheer me up.
I was commanding the wagon, horses chosen from the best of breed and wheels fashioned from the finest of trees. My passengers, men and women from villages I've traveled to, were all lounged in the box, sharing space with my map, books, and food, essentials to my journey. Unaware of the difficulty that was ahead, they were sleeping, exchanging jokes and gossips, and even nibbling from my stash every now and then. Though the map had indicated a pleasant travel down this road, some unknown force decided to make this trip the opposite.
A joke went too far and the laughter bothered one of the horses. I stopped the wagon, inspected the box and called out a burly man named Buck. “Hey you, your jokes are not funny and are often at the expense of other people. Get off! You're frightening the horses.” I left Buck at the side of the road, the horses calm and alert once more.
The god of the wind huffed and a small area was cleared of fog. The goddess of light lit a candle, a small yellow dot against a black canvas. The Muse played Pathétique, I felt sprightly .
The sound of pages being torn from the books substituted the road's eerie silence. I stopped the wagon, went back to the box and called out an overly dressed woman named Coney. “Hey you, you have no respect for people's ambitions. Instead of supporting, you go ripping off their dreams. Get off! You can never replace those pages.” I abandoned Coney at the side of the road, what was left of my books safe from malicious hands.
The god of the wind puffed and a wide area was cleared of fog. The goddess of light created a light bulb, a young sun flaring up in the vast galaxy. The Muse played Moonlight, I felt carefree.Read More