The Writer within You and How to Get Her or Him Out
Back when I was writing more novels than trashy articles, I liked to warm up before I started each day’s work. To do this I used a simple device. I closed my eyes and poked my finger into the dictionary. Then I wrote a poem using the word I found under my pinky.
One morning I had misplaced my dictionary under the piles of junk on my desk. I did have a book of literature and I poked my finger in there knowing that I would come up with a humdinger of a word out of such a great work.
I hit the word they!
I knew I’d had it but I wrote the following poem anyway. Why don’t you poke your finger into a book and write a new poem today?
They
by Taylor Jones
Sunday, March 21, 1999
Another great word,
From a book of lit,
My pinky done found.
They?
What a pick!
First, I think of aliens:
Tiny pink men
With purple lips,
And horseradish eyes,
And swivel hips.
They knock on your door
At two in the morning
And pee on your bare feet
Without any warning.
Which They think
Is all very funny,
Those childish wimps, They,
Who live on wild honey.
Last week I got my mower
Was cutting the grass.
I mowed down six Theymen
As quick as a flash.
Since that time
They have really got nasty.
They put sawdust
In my freshly baked pasty,
Which made me so mad,
That I spit on the floor
And drowned three Theymen,
To my regret evermore.
I was loading my groceries
The other day
When out came those wimps,
The fun-loving They.
The one, named Fondeek,
With the cotton-ball stare.
Grabbed a bottle of Glue
And plastered my hair.
Then Sordock coated the seat
Of my truck.
I not looking,
Sat down and got stuck.
In fact,
I’m
Writing
This
Poem
From the seat of my truck!
And Wednesday, last,
At the county fair,
I saw the Theymen,
Who were visiting there.
The one called, Yorvet,
A female of sorts,
Carried an umbrella,
And wore cut-off shorts.
Bigligny was there,
A squat little dwarf,
With salmon-loaf eyes,
And enormous black warts.
And so was Pinlupe,
The worst of the band,
Who plastered my truck
With strawberry jam.
They pestered the kids,
They harassed their mommies,
By popping balloons,
And swearing like carnies.
I felt so embarrassed,
To see their sad plight,
I stomped on three Theymen;
The others took flight.
So I’m the enemy
Of those wee-witted scoundrels,
Those tiny menaces
Of my neighborhood,
And I’d kill them all.
That is, if I could.
But they breed like bunnies,
Ten Beeps at a time,
With tiny green diapers,
They hang on the line.
And if you listen
In the quiet of the night,
You can hear the Beeps giggling,
To their mother’s delight.
Well, the moving van’s packed.
I’m ready to go.
And I would if I could
Put my foot to the floor.
But I can’t,
I’m stuck,
To the seat
Of
My
Truck!
Oh! I see the Beebs coming,
You all better duck!
Now watch where you are walking and start writing that poem!
Copyright©John T. Jones, Ph.D. 1999-2005
John T. Jones, Ph.D. (tjbooks@hotmail.com)is a retired R&D engineer and VP of a Fortune 500 company. He is author of detective & western novels, nonfiction (business, scientific, engineering), poetry, etc. Former editor of international trade magazine. Jones is Executive Representative of International Wealth Success.
More info: http://www.tjbooks.com
Business web site: http://www.bookfindhelp.com (IWS wealth-success materials / TopFlight flagpoles)
