Writers Boot Camp Poem by Kay Moore

My first group meeting of Writers Boot Camp
by Kate Moore9-MAY-2018

A poem about writers.....

Three writers surrounding me,
Silent,in their work.
Me, not sure where this is taking us,
To a place,softly, without a jerk.
Minds a whirring, stories enfolding,
Ingenious creativity, nobodyscolding.
From the depths within, magic is happening,
Fact or fiction, time will tell.
Maybe professional, maybe amateur,
Thoughts of language, has us under its spell.
All through the ages, the written word,
Has passeddown generations, to be heard.
Re-read and changed to suit the season,
For entertainment sometimes,andno other reason.
One of the most wonderful places to be,
Is hearing a story read to thee.
Thoughts materialize, from within our heads,
Then transferred to paper,to be read.
Language is golden, yet reading is better,
Remember the joy of receiving a letter.
Sometimes there are happenings,
No words can explain,
Yet to succeed in writing, is not a game.
Sometimes, years of research and travelling around,
Or becoming isolated and "going to ground"
Ideas can spring from unusual places,
A seed is sown and a volume replaces.
Something from nothing, grows and grows,
A crop to be harvested, not by the weak,
Just everyday people you can meet in the street.
We have authors whose work is for centuries read,
And wonder this genius, thoughts they had in their heads.
Imagination can guide us, along the way,
Some thoughts keep nudging all thru the day.
They sit inside us, and won't go away,
Till we write them down, or spit them out,
And then find out, what they're all about.
Sometimes I wonder if the thoughts are mine,
Or are channelled somehowdown the line.
A word that persist and won't go away,
Can be active and passive in a similar way.
Sometimes I marvel at an authors plot,
That takes four hundred pages to read the lot.
My attention satisfied, my mind relaxed,
Respect for the author and all the syntax.
Fairy tales and romance always sell so well,
Yet with mysteries and history some writers excel.
It is so special for children to read,
They stumble and flounder, hoping to succeed.
Yet as they indulge and learn and grow,
New worlds open up, they will reap what they sow.
Books and manuscripts, poetry and play,
Songwriters, storytellers, are born every day.
The world is our oyster, we all play a part,
So many a volume flies straight from the heart.
Some are evergreen, some are trash,
Yet it matters a jot, someone's had a bash
NOW EIGHT WRITERS
Thoughts may unravel, or weave a spell,
Maybe yourstory, or mine, I can tell.
Stranger than fiction, truth can appear,
It can be sorted, between our ears.
Changed, and re written, with the flick of the pen,
Chapter one, can now be, chapter ten.
We are all unique, in our own special way,
As our tastes are endless, from day to day.
So to visit a library, close to home,
You'll find many an author, just not all home grown.
So you might like to journey, in the sea of words,
And commit to paper, ideas you have heard.
Or maybe an experience, you havelong lived ago,
So put pen to paper and tell lit as so.
Or maybe the pc,is more your style,
Electronic techno, has been here for a while.
For some, the story will rush like a river,
Others may ponder,take time to deliver.
Yet we all have a yarn,we surely can spin,
Some make us cry, and some make us grin.
I've heard it said, and read the same,
To put pen to paper is a difficult game.
Yet sometimes I find, the way to start,
Is at daybreak or dawn, when the world is still dark.
Before the clutter and worry and trash,
Mess up your thoughts, use up your gas.
Start your day with a calmopen mind,
Without interruptions, of all types of kind.
Go with the flow, pass your thoughts, onto paper,
Before you forget, which may happen later.
And it matters not,if one rambles and raves,
Let your emotions flow, like ocean waves.
Let the tide rush in, let your thoughts fly out.
Creating a novel, maybe, what it's all about.
A story of love, a story of grief,
Of war,or peace, or just a belief.
A movie, a play, a TV show,
A poem, a manuscript, may be the go.
No one can take from what's you, is you,
A soul wrenching tale, that just may be true.
A sad event that's better forgotten,
Yet to bring to the open, will surely just soften.
The memories, that hurt, in the past, take a place,
A cartharic exercise, displayed with grace.
So where ever you travel, within your mind,
To be sure, there's a story,to help you unwind.
You can fold it up, and put it away,
Or change it around another day.
So much delight can be had with words,
Truth or fantasy, can be heard.
About an experience, you have once had.
Maybe a story of your Mum or Dad.
Maybe your neighbours or maybe your children,
, Possibly friends from another kingdom.
The poverty stricken, the poor, the underfed,
The slaves, the filthy rich or the dead.
Dreamtime stories hold a place of their own,
But us "writers" from Boot Camp have to write it down! ! !