What It Takes To Be A Writer

By Phill Senters





As I  pondered at my desk today,
about what words of wit to say,

That’s when it came into to my mind,
what it’s like to try and be a writer.

What does it take, one  may well ask
to perform this often thankless task
just to try and make this world a little brighter?

Across my office floor all strewn,
are little bits of paper
I have written words upon.

Lots of words are held therein,
waiting for the final toss into the garbage bin.

With accusation, now it seems
they’re staring back at me

I feel  as if I’m being watched as I plan and think and scheme.
Should I pick them up and toss them out
when next I need some caffeine
from the coffee spout?

No, not yet, I may need one,
keep ‘em round a little while until I’m really done.

Lord, now look at that old silly clock
it’s running oh, so fast.

Time just never seems to be a friend
that’ll hang around and last.

Maybe that’s what separates
my future from my past.

Now it’s turning dawn outside,
I can see it through  the panes.

The light brings all those noisy
sounds to remind me once again.

Looks like I’ll have to leave for now,
and do a full day’s work,

Before returning home again,
where these accusing words still lurk.

Waiting to accuse me
of slacking at my job.

Just because my eyes won’t work,
and my head begins to nod.

If this is what it’s gonna take, to forge a writer out of me,
I pray to God it happens soon,
‘cause I can’t take much more.

So I pick up those accusing words, still scattered on the floor,
and stack ‘em up as cleanly, and neatly as I can,

Because I’ll surely need ‘em  when next I’m here again,
I know that they’ll be waiting
when I stagger through  that door.

Passing Time
By Phill Senters


When I was young and in my prime
I never thought of passing time.
As I grew older and became of age
I thought time at work was like a prison’s
cage.

I ran wild and thought always,
How young and full of life I’d be.

Until the relentless, sweeping hands of time
Came swooping, crowding in on me.

No longer did I wonder what he meant
When Grandpaw said  ‘Youth must be from Heaven sent’
And when my mom said ‘Some day you’ll understand, my son,
That life is so much more than having fun’.

So my advice to all that care to heed,
Have all your fun and fill that need.
But while you’re still so very young,
Fill your life with good deeds done.

Save up memories that cause a smile,
And make good friends
to keep thru all the miles.
Listen to the older folks and learn more of their ways,
You’ll be glad you did when you reach your golden days.

As teens we walked that road so many times,
The sand gets into everything it’s ground so fine,
From cars and trucks that travel by.

When a car or truck comes speeding by, the dust cloud rises way up high.
It settles oh so slowly down on everything, ofttimes even in your blinking eyes.

Orange grove right and orange grove left with barriers of weedy brush.
Walk on the side and you can hear the sound of old dry weeds as they crush.

Ghosts there were upon that stretch of citrus lined sand and clay,
Where even most adults would only walk by the light of day.

Before you hurt yourself with a hearty laugh,
Give me a chance to show it’s not a gaff.

Nighttime brought out the little creepy things,
These harmless things we knew could do no harm.

But larger sounds like footsteps keeping pace in the brush,
The kind of thing to bring conversation to a sudden hush.

‘What’s that noise?’ a new  friend once asked. ‘Just a noisy ghost, I guess it is’.
‘There’s no such thing’ he said to me,’you’re just giving me the biz’.

But when it was time for him to go back to his home,
He stood steadfast and would not go alone.

So we took a light to”show our way”
And started walking back again,
Toward his home at the end of day.

Crunching noise as we pace,
Makes the heart beat like it's in a race!

‘Wait! Let’s stop and check this out’.
Flashlight shines,  no help at all, though we shine it all about.

Never after that again did my friend go,
To my house without a ride, guaranteed both to and fro!

Nobody feels.

Each day I wake up long before the early dawn
and wish to share what’s in my head, but this old
place is occupied by my self alone.
And even if there were someone,
they wouldn't’t last for long.

Nobody hears.

It seems nobody else can hear
the soundless screams
which cause this ache between my ears.
It’s worse than any chalkboard screeching
that you ever heard.
More like a thousand demons singing in a  thunderous herd.

Nobody knows.

Friends don’t want to listen to my troubles, wants and needs,
Why don’t you see a doctor, I’ve been so kindly told,
they can perform some wondrous works and fantastic deeds.

Nobody guesses.

The docs don’t know, there’s nothing wrong, I’m sure your head is fine.
Take these pills, return in four week’s time.
So I can check you out again, just so we can be sure,
if we find whatever’s wrong, then we’ll find a cure.

Nobody shares.

Oft I’ve looked, but never have I ever found another,
someone who shares these crazy things, I guess I’ll never find a brother.
Someone to commiserate and fully understand,
what life is like for such a ******* up man.

Nobody cares.

My friends don’t visit any more, they’d just rather stay away,
and not be bothered socializing with the likes of me.
But who can really blame them, for they think that I’m a crazy man,
and I fully must agree.

Nobody sees.

When finally my day is done, I lay down to get some rest, the visions come with demons laughing, dancing ’round in merry jest.
They scream and yell and carry on, creating havoc in my aching head.
That’s why the dawn never catches me, sleeping in my lonely, sweat soaked bed.

When we first met and fell in love, so many years ago,

We were so young and full of life, oh how I loved her so!

I still recall the picnic, once on a summer’s day,

When there were no other people, to interrupt our play,

She came softly to me, and whispered in my ear.

Don’t you know I’ll love you, all my living years.

I’ll give my heart and all my love as long as I shall live.

And in return one thing I ask, and hope that you will give.

It’s just a little part of you , I need and want you see,

And , sweetheart if you give it, you’ll not get it back from

me.

I want your heart forever, and maybe one more day.

So darling if you want me, that’s all you’ll have to pay.

Soon after that we married, and lived so happily.

And as for other women, none could I ever see.

We never did have children, much as we desired.

So it was just my Beck and me, our love always on fire.

She loved me like she said she would, and made my life

complete.

And I never hurt her, or caused a single
tear,

Because I loved my Becky, too much to ever cheat.

Now that was many years ago, and time has slipped by fast.

Some say I’m just a crazy man, for living in the past.

But now my body’s withered up in pain, and ravaged with old

age.

And  Becky’s gone and left me, must be two years or more.

I pray to God that someday soon, He’ll open up this cage,

And let me fly away from here, and cool this awful rage.

So when the angel comes to take  me to her, I’ll be sitting by the

brook,

Reading tear stained pages in Becky’s favorite Bible book.

What I miss can hardly be told without those pesky little drops of moisture that cloud my vision and make it hard to see when I think about it.

What I miss can not be summed up in just words, there are feelings which I suspect no one can describe easily or comfortably enough to make someone who hasn't been there understand.

What I miss causes me to sometimes feel far, far worse than lonely, for lonely is only a small part of what I miss

What I miss is not just a place or a feeling or a person, friend, companion, or lover. What I miss is all these and even more that I can’t put into words.

What I miss sometimes causes laughter, sometimes hurt, loving memories, arguments, good times, hard times, and times in between.

What I miss is mine alone, but if and when I wish to share, it must be my choice, and only when I feel safe in doing so will it be clear to you , what I miss.