On Monday, I try to lose myself in a book
If only this workmens’ invasion and dust were only a dream
I ignore the noise and pick up a pen
Then give up on that and grab a quilting needle
Words are as remote to me as a child to a virgin wanting to give birth
I just want to be alone; I could never be a star.
If I could write my poem I would be a star
I would write and edit until I’d have a book
One poem a day isn’t so difficult to birth
Despite my busy life on Tuesday I firmly hold this dream
I tell myself to drop the quilting needle
And to take up my notebook and my pen.
But on Wednesday I do all the wrong things with my special pen
I write out bills after work until the night fills with stars
And then I’m tired so I pick up the quilting needle
After that I rest with a romantic book
And slide into bed in hopes of pretty dreams
So there goes yet another day with no birth.
At the start of Thursday I resolve to write on its birth
Yes today I will have an expressive pen
I will go to work but my psyche will labor on my dream
And another employee, not me, will be the star
But I come home tired; my nose ends up in a book
And yes, I am naughty and end the day with a quilting needle.
On Friday, my writing friends call and needle, needle, needle
“The world needs the poetry only you can birth
We’ve looked forward for years to reading your book”
I am shamed into picking up a pen, but
Pleased, I see that to my friends I am already a star
And there are people in my life that share my dream.
On Saturday I wake up prepared to fulfill my dream
The quilt goes into the drawer along with the needle
I will write all day until I see stars
The world seems hushed in preparation for my poem’s birth
This time I really do pick up my pen
And write toward immortality and my future book.
Sunday morning in a dream I smile; I finally gave birth
To a book of words; the results of my pen.
The cover has a quilted patchwork of stars.
Copyright © 2007 Lavender Isis. All Rights Reserved.
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