‘Twas the Month before Christmas*

‘Twas the month before Christmas when all through my head

Not a thought was stirring, not even a thread.

The desk was cleaned, the PC turned on,

Hoping inspiration would arrive anon.

The keys were snuggled tight in their board,

And fingers aloft, I felt like a fraud.

When out in the ether there arose such a clatter

I quickly switched tabs to see what was the matter.

Away to Gmail, I flew like a flash,

Clicked open the message, in case of a crash.

The words on the screen danced in the glow,

Gave a lustre of blue light to my fingers below.

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But a message from Rob, and all I did fear.

For you see he’s a taskmaster, lively and quick,

Wielding deadlines with a slavedriver’s flick.

More vapid than ever, my words how they came.

And I cursed, and shouted and called them by name:

“Now, Trope!, now, Simile! Now Metaphor and Rhyme!

On, Cadence! on Rhythm! on Couplet, in Time!

Add words to my page! Please help me I cried!

Make me some prose, fiction, or Sci-Fi?”

As letters that before Santa’s postie do mass,

My thoughts met with obstacles, alack and alas!

I stared at my page and started anew,

With a head full of nothing and a deadline too.

And then, in a trickle, an idea appears,

I seize at my pen  -its loss the greatest of fears.

From my hand to the nib, words flow to the page,

Illegible, intangible, let free from a cage.

It’s off with abandon, a box free of its sash,

Typos and commas, semi-colons and em dash,

Fix it all later -it’s the words that matter,

My mind reassures in side-chatter.

The pages are filled and flung to the floor.

My husband arrives at the door,

“Are you hungry?” he says noting dim light.

I stare back, eyes glazed, and he wishes me “Good night!”

I speak not a word, straight back to my work,

Till the idea is spent and I sit up with a jerk,

And laying my pen by my page, I turn text into type,

I find a picture to match, to give it some hype.

I copy and paste – it’s on the website

And away my words fly – I hope they’re not shite!

I tumble to bed, my deadline is met,

To my taskmaster, I am no longer in debt.

But I hear him exclaim in my dreams of the night,

“Keep the pen moving, and don’t forget to write!”

*A tribute to “A visit from St Nicholas” by Clement Clarke Moore.

Photo by Towfiqu barbhuiya on Unsplash