The Writer
© 2007
Dan Johnson

In a long forgotten place
far away from the human race,
There was a writer of some repute.
He claimed to be

The most prolific, to be specific, he said;
The words flow like music from my soul,
Poignant, magical, mystical and spiritual too.

Then he said with the aid of a trumpet sound, he considered himself the most profound;
Understanding all there is,
is what he said,
Wise as the ages,
better than all the sages…
he went painfully on and on.

To the masses he revealed an epic poem would be written,
A masterful piece,
astounding, it would be,
and all the little people
of life would be smitten
by each and every word.

Verse one came without trouble, smooth and flawless the words flowed like
the coming together of the
Tigris, Euphrates and the Nile too.
So confident was he,
he said there’s not much left to do.

Verse two took a bit longer he was swallowed by his pride,
Not all the words jumped from inside his head
to the waiting blank spaces,
a point common writers dread.

Verse three left The Writer, drowning in a sea of mediocrity.
The words came slowly, forcefully,
lacking any kind of poetic consistency,
and the most vexing point of all
was that The Writer could not find

the final line to his poem..

 He searched, he cried, he found no
way to be the master of his pen.

In a fit of frustration, he left his written words
on the table, in his humble home,
where the candle
slowly burned.

He could not suppress his angst,
so out the door
to the awaiting world,
he wandered through the village,
he journeyed through
the darkened woods,

and then lightning struck and jolted him alive,
he was overjoyed at the fact that
he had now arrived…he knew exactly what he  wanted to say!
but it was too late,

When the lightning struck
and the wind blew,
a vengeful little breeze,
flew inside his home
and the candle, sitting on the table,
tipped over, flaming up all of
his prolific and profound words.. .

the flames raged with golden strikes to the sky and
in his arrogance he gazed at the sight and said,

It’s OK I have more wood in the attic to build again.

Dan Johnson
© 2007