Up Against It Poem by Matt Mooney

It's a locked shop for some,
banquet tables reserved
for the crème de la crème
the lucky literati, the few,
whose voices are heard
in the media that matters
and whose columns abound
in the best bred papers -
we plough away with our pens
preaching to ourselves,
praying for a publisher.
The monks in beehive huts
had nothing up on us -
they sought their isolation
whereas alas we have it
but would gladly trade it
for a call from on high
and a chance to give a blast,
to broadcast our written wares
wide and far on wavelengths
or something up to par
in the literary pages of the nation
because believe it or not
we don't just sit around the fire
singing songs to amuse ourselves
or ramble aimlessly around
making noises now and then -
knowing we are not considered
to be part of the national psyche,
though we take our trade seriously
as they did in the bardic schools,
each winter until the cuckoo called;
know that we too go head to head
and we give each piece of work
the final touch for the perfect finish
for the world out there to share.