posted February 11, 2017 02:55 PM            

In his worn pages a world does unfold
Of battles, stories, romances most bold

Poems, magic and wondrous enchantments
Deep insights, gentle thoughts and mighty spring dances

A field so green that your legs would to leap
A valley so deep that your heart would to weep

Atop mighty mountains do you soar, his hand holding yours
Then tiptoe into the seas where the leviathan you hear snore

Of science and knowledge does this book contain much
Every fancy is tickled in those pages are such

Your heart would ere pound at the music within
The cadence so nat’ral the rhythms do grin

And of kindly thoughts you would feel such peace
Every paragraph flowing love without surcease

Yet the printer bound the book in a rage and bitter anger
The publisher commissioned the work with a haphazard manner

And so worn is the cover and torn violently asunder
The colors badly inked, grand title scorched by thunder

Thus sits in silence this book, never read, never opened
Too proud to compromise, in pain most tormented

Worthy readers pass him by clutching their catches
Not giving second judgement to him in the ashes

But now and then, the curious book
hears a sound and will look

Down below a girl he thinks is cute
So with a brave effort off the shelf he will shoot

a push, twirl of pages and plop he lands
bump off her head and into her hands

to be read, perhaps abed?

posted February 11, 2017 05:58 PM            

WELCOME to YellowWax, and thank you for your first post! woot woot...

I'm soooo glad you joined us.

Your writing is fabulously rich!

I could relate. Much work is poured into creating just one piece. Then after several pieces, they seem to synthesize or coalesce to form their own conglomerate personality. They are living sets of thought-forms set into the pages of a part of your life's story.

You can take all those individual sets of works, each a care filled outpouring of your soul and psyche. Adventures! .... Placed in a corset! Freedom, having to be submitted and bound... The binding-up of those loose pages, into a permanent order, can seem restricted and heartless!!!!

I know what you're talking about with dealing with the publishers... haphazard? Yes, they are the Observers. The outsider business-people.

It's hard to push and hand over your baby to a sitter, a set of strangers! What they gonna do?????? Is it still going to be, smell, and look like You when you see what they've done?

Takes a lot of trust!, and an ability to let it go--- you adapt, like getting used to a child who has individuated, and has a life of its own now.

The way you described the book resting on the shelf, is soooo quaint and precious. Yes. A work of art. Waiting there. Confined with bindings to its slot. Seen admiringly with a glance maybe, but often passed by. Opportunity.

Peoples LIVES are poured into each and every page between the hard cardboard and spine. Rich rich rich.

Every person is a living book waiting to have its pages written, collected, and set in style... At rest in the solitary places-- until opened.

You yourself can take that volume down from the shelf and refresh your acquaintance for a while... going down the memory lane.

Strange too, is how you can go back to your own work with new eyes after the rivers of life have washed over some stones.

Not as sharp. More smooth. Still a stone among stones. Colors along the river's path.

posted February 11, 2017 07:06 PM            

I really liked the spinning frog and the rainbow, that was very cool thanks!

Ehm, well, I guess in a way, it's sort of about publishing .. relationship speaking that is...

Actually, I like your take on my poem better than what I intended, so yes, yes it is about publishing.

posted February 12, 2017 02:07 PM            

A very warm welcome I.am.awesome! (like your name)