The Stable

Writer, mount that story

The alabaster fantasy with the golden wings

That soars easily through legends

And lights upon your dreams.

You, anointed warrior

Wielding your pen ferociously

Wrapped in silken worlds of your own making

Storms of possibility nipping your heels

Crouch against the sweat-strained muscles

To do battle against reptilian Titans

While the critics launch their arrows

Against your triumphs.

Writer, break that story

The palomino mystery with the fiery eyes and murderous heart

Stomping his hooves on the mud of ghosts

Bucking, twisting, rearing

He busts you out of the corral

Of your mind

You, jaunty cowboy

Metaphors flashing at your hip

Dust clouding your vision

Digging your knees in for the ride of your life

Sealed to the contortions like a lover

Your hand wrapped in his mane

Feather-light

You know he’ll throw you soon

But you lurch on as long as you can

And when he heaves you to the dust

The critics will circle

And return him to their prison.

Writer, ride that story

The proud ebony poem with the prancing gait

And the fancy saddle

Ribbons glitter on her mane as she tosses her tail

And dances down the trail

You, mindful artisan

Crop playing under your fingers

Lightly tap her shanks and propel her on

Posting confidently

Wind lapping your face

You jump linguistic fences with a flourish

And groom her fondly every day

While the critics circle her hooves

Chasing squirrels.

Writer, race that story

The daring chestnut novel taking the odds in stride

Cloaked in scarlet silks

Trots impatiently to the gate

Spoiling for the gun

To explode into victory

You, mischievous jockey

Navigate the competition

Amid the thunder of challenger hoof beats

Melded to your stirrups

Face pressed against the hindquarters

Of syntax, grammar and market

Surf the finish line

While the critics cash in their bets.

Writer, free that story

The strong young dappled draft with her head hung low

Let her nuzzle through the clover

For a mouthful of heaven

And roll with abandon in the sweet meadow

You, enchanted witness to a giant’s earthy delight

Slouching by a washed-out fence

Scent of manure teasing your nostrils

Tempting the contented filly

To let you rub her velvet nose

Admiring her sinuous joy

Remembering the rides you took

And the champions you gentled

And the stable you built with your own hands

While the critics caw overhead

From their sly branches.

© 2006 Melissa Cross.  All rights reserved.  No part of this piece may be reproduced without the express permission of the author.