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Last night I laid down around eleven, million verses running through my head. Finally; my eyes found the sleep they so desperately sought. I began to dream, I was suddenly standing at the gates of Poets Heaven. Staring into the eyes of the great Shakespeare himself. He slowly began to speak," My lady, my lady, I am the keeper of poet's gate. Thou art early. Leaveth, go to the back of the line. There thou shall wait. Admissions will begin at eight."
Seemed like hours had past, before he called my name at last. Finally: it was time for my interview. I was shaking like fall leaves upon the trees, barely able to stand upon my wobbly knees, sweat beads trickling down my nervous chin. Carl Sandburg arose from his chair motioning me in, beckoning me to sit upon the luscious red velvet chair. He set there twirling his white cotton mustache, for what seemed like a hour. Sparkling blue eyes seemed to be sizing me up. He sat there silently sipping his red wine, sweetly from his cup. Finally; he asked, " What is a limerick?" I gave a relieved sigh, then offered my reply, "It is a poem consisting of five lines, first, second, and last rhymes." He twirled his sparkling gold pen, aiming it toward the sky, " Look at that star , tell me what you see!" I thought for only a second ,before answering, "I see a star; It's distance like infinity."
He waved his hands in the air, leaning forward in his gold framed chair, into his eyes came a distant glare. With gentle words he spoke, "When I look at a star, I see the smiling, twinkling , deep blue eyes of my wife, I see the bright light of God shining within my life." Rising from his chair he gently took my hand, leading me back to the entrance of the gates. Again he spoke, "I will give you a glimpse of what someday awaits." The beautiful gate of syllables and rhymes swung open wide, I quickly peeked inside, beholding all the glorious memories, my mind could possibly absorb. The gates closed leaving only the memories behind. I saw walls formed of pearls, verses of silver and gold, so graceful they swirl. Ballads and sonnets, dressed as the fair ladies of old , in blue church bonnets. Edger Allen Poe with his golden pen all aglow, black raven upon his shoulder, how graceful, his pen did flow. Robert Frost painting immaculate rainbows , across the sky, verses of nature's beauty, scrolled on high. All the great poets dwelled within, silvery halls of rhythm and rhyme. Standing there I knew Carl was right. I was not ready to enter tonight, It was not yet time.
I awoke:
back in the workshop trying to dig embers from ashes of coal, willing my pen to bleed permanent stains , upon the glossy page. I recall getting so frustrated my pen often took on rage. Vivid images from my dream began dancing in my head. Loosening my pen I let the words flow. If I did not make it to Poets Heaven; it would not be from lack of trying.
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