Writer's Paradise: A Poem for Dreamers
Writer's Paradise
Where flasks of coffee, dark roasted, a hint of whiskey
flow from the coffers
where the computer keys
never stiffen or stick together
where the screen never freezes, the mouse never squeals
where the words are dynamic and strike the page with truth and purpose
where Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky give us tips, whispering in our mind's ear in a secret code, sign language, smoke signaling us to the right or the left
where the stories
pour from our characters' hearts
like bleeding ulcers and fine wine from Napa Valley
where the mundane, the cliche´
transform into a rich tapestry of colors and textures
never without tones or hue
where the critical voice, the voice that tells us that we can't do it has left for the coast, the coast of broken verse
where words float like notes
from hand drums, handguns
and church hymns, nursery school rhymes
and those seraphs and gargoyles
with lutes and mandolins
serenade us overhead like literary agents above the clouds
where our muse is always well-fed, bathed and towel dried
where the muse never has jet lag or acid reflux
the muse rolls onto the runway on time, takes flight
deep into the Shakespearean night
into the desert of day, flying over afternoon mountains, soaring over California at Disneyland
the sound that our writing makes is one big delicious Ommm and a half-smile namaste
like a hummingbird on caffeine
quietly moving, fluttering
drinking poems one by one
sipping the nectar from the yarrow and hollyhock
and infusing it into the next line.