.

On the old blog I was asked to prove that I was a writer. I told the person who asked this that I was. If they would give me an hour I could prove it.

I began posting things that I'd written. At the end of an hour they said that yes I was. Tonight I'm hearing WB say I'm not a writer if I don't get money for it. LOL I was surprised. If I don't write how would I get paid?

Something that I wrote on one of those days when I was told that I was just screwing around. Apparently I'd be valued more if I cleaned crap off the bottom of someones shoes.


Sad.

Note Pup thinks that I'm a writer.




For Elizabeth G and her Mooses

The words do come fully formed

Like a lovely yet sometime weedy garden

Only I get to decide what are the weeds

And which are the flowers.



So I caught that poem by it's tail

I swug it round and round

Threw the words against the wall

Then stomped them on the ground

No pit of dark and deep dispair

Would beat my story down

Gentlly it would rise up

From the mire upon the ground



The words they rose like the butterfly wings

Round and round my head they'd fly

To live in some enchanted land

Then come back. I don't know why.

Then weave themselves into a cloak

The color of a summer sky

Or deeper blue. A blue berry blue

From the oceans of tears I'd cried



So here -- it's yours to keep you warm

Traveler's coat with faery wings.

To fly you to ephemeral lands

Where imaginations sing.



2/11/09

AuthorAnn

Feb-13-09 03:08:39 PST