Saturday, June 2, 2012


My vocal chords are not vibrating,

No worthy sound escapes their shaking,

For in the mountains I did find,

That which I wish I'd left behind,

For coughing, wheezing, gunked up hacking,

In-between my cough-drop snacking,

Is all I have to post of now,

It's simply not enough somehow,

Today I'm writing, clacking keys,

My laptop warming both my knees,

I caught up clients, e-mails too,

Phone-calls, messages old and new,

I'm editing my novel's pages,

Hoping to complete in stages,

That which I have not attempted,

A draft that once my voice has mended,

I shall read aloud to hear,

Every part to change and clear,

All the words that issue forth,

Weighted with a worsted worth,

Woven tightly, as a cloth?

Or loose and holey as a moth-

-eaten fabric; needs repair,

Who will read and enter there?

Can I do it? Will I see?

A writer I'm supposed to be?

Is this project fancy-mine,

Something worth the loving time,

Will it be a well-read book?

With the effort that it took?

I won't know until I'm done.

I must finish all this fun.

I have pages, newly written,

They can sting as though I'd bitten,

Into a lime with salted skin,

Dancing through the light within,

My progress slows, will it lift?

Back to quick, and fast and thrift?

Is the story too far-fetched?

Time and space are aptly stretched.

Readers, if you're in the ether,

Shall I post another chapter?

A novel for adults this is,

But also for some teenaged kids,

I don't know what happens next,

Now I must return to text.

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