Post by rustybroadspear on Feb 4, 2012 15:01:06 GMT -5
Samuel’s Secret
Inspiration came not from the stars
Or from the miracles of Mother Nature,
Or from the strong and binding love
Of a wife and two young scamps of boys.
Stroking facial stubble, he secretly chuckled
As words poured onto crumpled paper.
Alone in his garden shed most late nights
Tonight was no different.
‘Hence and thee and thou’, Shakespeare
Was not his private love or inspiration.
In fact he laughed at his words. Whence did they go?
And then his mind cried bitterly.
But the words spat forth, overflowing paper,
Lines of ink, strokes of sadness.
The old shed creaked in disgust
As a new paper ball hit the mound in the corner.
He poured himself another golden shot and
His mind-face glared back at him.
As if in disapproving judgement.
His mind stared back at his secret love.
But it was not his inspiration, onkly a sleep aid.
Whisky had a knack of slamming the night gate shut,
Stopping the night words in midst of attack.
Letting him float in a thick black tasteless soup.
Owls accompanied him with their limited vocabulary
Tonight - as they did other nights.
The golden shot was replaced with its Mother,
And once again the words gushed forth.
Medium height, in fact average man, with
A job in a wasrehouse. But he was a man with a gift.
A useless gift. For he wrote in utter darkness.
Where art thou now my love? He giggled.
Where is who for God’s sake? To be or not to be?
Last year, this year, his boys joined big school,
And his wife was promoted from veg to meat
As a cook at the very same school …………….
Now - there’s a sign of a universal plan, so clever,
Just like his gift. Inspiration came not from the stars.
Words stopped abruptly – he picked his nose and
Wondered at the tip of his finger –not inspiration.
For ’twas too dark to see. A deft slick finger flick, then
The dam broke and words fell, tumbled, spewed.
As his hand spun, his wife paid her nightly visit
To his thoughts. He loved her dearly – but he was lost.
He laughed loudly, thinking of the song that said
‘Words don’t come easy’. Hell, what’s this then?
As his left hand tried to slow his right hand down.
He cried when he wanted to speaketh love to his wife.
Tomorrow was Sunday, no work, all play.
He liked the Sabbath in the sound of his garden with wife and kids.
But not before he’d gone through his crumpled book,
That stood forlornly in the corner of his shed.
Samuel was his name and twenty-five years old.
Already written more special words than twelve Bibles.
He was in awe of Mother Nature - but she
Wasn’t his Goddess – or his source of inspiration.
His shed was soulless, moonless, windowless.
Had it made that way. A table, a chair, a ton of paper
A bucket of biros. It was his hobby, his pastime,
His secret gift. That would provide income for his children.
Samuel thought of his wife, Heather. She
Took him as he was. She never feared the weird,
She was part of this peculiar plan. I love her so much,
Just the gentlest of touch ignites all emotions.
Sixteen we were, she knew me then as I am now.
Life together, desperately finite, I wish I could say the word ‘love’
But then most men can’t, so I’m no different to most ……….
For once. He threw his pen and cried bitterly again.
He wasn’t clever, didn’t sing or anything; just a human.
A grocer’s help. Born without eyes …………………….
Hell, what you’ve not had, you’ve not missed.
Samuel’s pen poised momentarily – his mind could still cry.
Black plastic and webbery thin bugs crawled in the shed
And they weren’t inspiration. But he knew they were there.
The tears, words, giggles flowed, he was in a kindly vice
For even the tears were kind. Samuel fell to sleep.
The Sun’s warmth rose with Samuel, he sorted his poetry mound,
As was habit. Sundays word free. But my family were free
And I would hug them and love them and love them again
And we would play and play and eat and drink.
And I would silently scream to God for my tongue
Which was also not a gift at birth. So my secret gift?
My inspiration? Is the life that lives on my hands,
And on and within my body and brain and soul.
Yes – I see this life – I feel it – a solitary, beautiful world.
So poor Samuel didn’t take a permanent rest.
No eyes, no tongue but my words will take you out.
Welcome to my life and whence art thou my stranger?
Samuel’s secret gift was kept within friends and family,
Until he passed on.
His volumes were sold at auction.
His family never wanted for money any more.
But they did want Samuel back.
Inspiration came not from the stars
Or from the miracles of Mother Nature,
Or from the strong and binding love
Of a wife and two young scamps of boys.
Stroking facial stubble, he secretly chuckled
As words poured onto crumpled paper.
Alone in his garden shed most late nights
Tonight was no different.
‘Hence and thee and thou’, Shakespeare
Was not his private love or inspiration.
In fact he laughed at his words. Whence did they go?
And then his mind cried bitterly.
But the words spat forth, overflowing paper,
Lines of ink, strokes of sadness.
The old shed creaked in disgust
As a new paper ball hit the mound in the corner.
He poured himself another golden shot and
His mind-face glared back at him.
As if in disapproving judgement.
His mind stared back at his secret love.
But it was not his inspiration, onkly a sleep aid.
Whisky had a knack of slamming the night gate shut,
Stopping the night words in midst of attack.
Letting him float in a thick black tasteless soup.
Owls accompanied him with their limited vocabulary
Tonight - as they did other nights.
The golden shot was replaced with its Mother,
And once again the words gushed forth.
Medium height, in fact average man, with
A job in a wasrehouse. But he was a man with a gift.
A useless gift. For he wrote in utter darkness.
Where art thou now my love? He giggled.
Where is who for God’s sake? To be or not to be?
Last year, this year, his boys joined big school,
And his wife was promoted from veg to meat
As a cook at the very same school …………….
Now - there’s a sign of a universal plan, so clever,
Just like his gift. Inspiration came not from the stars.
Words stopped abruptly – he picked his nose and
Wondered at the tip of his finger –not inspiration.
For ’twas too dark to see. A deft slick finger flick, then
The dam broke and words fell, tumbled, spewed.
As his hand spun, his wife paid her nightly visit
To his thoughts. He loved her dearly – but he was lost.
He laughed loudly, thinking of the song that said
‘Words don’t come easy’. Hell, what’s this then?
As his left hand tried to slow his right hand down.
He cried when he wanted to speaketh love to his wife.
Tomorrow was Sunday, no work, all play.
He liked the Sabbath in the sound of his garden with wife and kids.
But not before he’d gone through his crumpled book,
That stood forlornly in the corner of his shed.
Samuel was his name and twenty-five years old.
Already written more special words than twelve Bibles.
He was in awe of Mother Nature - but she
Wasn’t his Goddess – or his source of inspiration.
His shed was soulless, moonless, windowless.
Had it made that way. A table, a chair, a ton of paper
A bucket of biros. It was his hobby, his pastime,
His secret gift. That would provide income for his children.
Samuel thought of his wife, Heather. She
Took him as he was. She never feared the weird,
She was part of this peculiar plan. I love her so much,
Just the gentlest of touch ignites all emotions.
Sixteen we were, she knew me then as I am now.
Life together, desperately finite, I wish I could say the word ‘love’
But then most men can’t, so I’m no different to most ……….
For once. He threw his pen and cried bitterly again.
He wasn’t clever, didn’t sing or anything; just a human.
A grocer’s help. Born without eyes …………………….
Hell, what you’ve not had, you’ve not missed.
Samuel’s pen poised momentarily – his mind could still cry.
Black plastic and webbery thin bugs crawled in the shed
And they weren’t inspiration. But he knew they were there.
The tears, words, giggles flowed, he was in a kindly vice
For even the tears were kind. Samuel fell to sleep.
The Sun’s warmth rose with Samuel, he sorted his poetry mound,
As was habit. Sundays word free. But my family were free
And I would hug them and love them and love them again
And we would play and play and eat and drink.
And I would silently scream to God for my tongue
Which was also not a gift at birth. So my secret gift?
My inspiration? Is the life that lives on my hands,
And on and within my body and brain and soul.
Yes – I see this life – I feel it – a solitary, beautiful world.
So poor Samuel didn’t take a permanent rest.
No eyes, no tongue but my words will take you out.
Welcome to my life and whence art thou my stranger?
Samuel’s secret gift was kept within friends and family,
Until he passed on.
His volumes were sold at auction.
His family never wanted for money any more.
But they did want Samuel back.
this little snippet ...... and thank you for your comments, they are very much appreciated, especially for a poem that is open to one's own interpretation, like or dislike ....................
and 
all
time for me 
echoes, hope you all are doing well 
