The Writer's Voice
The World's Favourite Literary Website

Samuel's Secret


Rusty Broadspear

Inspiration came not from the stars

Or from the miracles of Mother Nature,

Or from the strong and binding love

Of a wife and two young scamps of boys.

Stroking facial stubble, he secretly chuckled

As words poured onto crumpled paper.

Alone in his garden shed most late nights

Tonight was no different.

Hence and thee and thou, Shakespeare

Was not his private love or inspiration.

In fact he laughed at his words. Whence did they go?

And then he cried bitterly.

But the words spat forth, overflowing paper,

Swimming in tears of such sadness.

The old shed creaked in disgust

As a new paper ball hit the mound in the corner.

He poured himself another golden shot and

From it his face glared back at him.

As if in disapproving judgement.

He stared back at his secret love.

But it was not his inspiration, just a sleep aid.

Whisky had a knack of slamming the night gate shut,

Stopping the night words in midst of attack.

Letting him float in a thick black tasteless soup.

Owls accompanied him with their limited vocabulary

Tonight - as they did other nights.

The golden shot had been replaced with its Mother,

And once again the words gushed forth.

Medium height, in fact medium man, with

A job in a grocer's store. But he was a man with a gift.

A useless gift. For he wrote in utter darkness.

Where art thou now my love? He giggled.

Where is who for God's sake? To be or not to be?

Last year, this year, his boys joined big school,

And his wife was promoted from veg to meat

As a cook at the very same school.

Now - there's a sign of a universal plan, so clever,

Just like his gift. Inspiration came not from the stars.

Words stopped abruptly he picked his nose and

Wondered at the tip of his finger - no not inspiration.

For 'twas too dark to see. Following a slick flick

The dam broke and the words fell, tumbled, spewed.

As his hand spun, his wife paid her nightly visit

To his thoughts. He loved her dearly - but was lost.

He laughed loudly, thinking of the song that said

Words don't come easy. Hell, what's this then?

As his left hand tried to slow his right hand down.

He cried when he wanted to speaketh love to his wife.

Tomorrow was Sunday, no work, all play.

He liked the Sabbath in the garden with wife and kids.

But not before he'd gone through his crumpled book,

That stood forlornly in the corner of his shed.

Samuel was his name and twenty-five years old.

Already written more special words than twelve Bibles.

He was in awe of Mother Nature - but she

Wasn't his Goddess or his source of inspiration.

His shed was soulless, moonless, windowless

Had it made that way. A table, a chair, a ton of paper

A bucket of biros. It was his hobby, his pastime,

His secret gift. That would provide income for his children.

Samuel thought of his wife, Heather. She

Took him as he was. She never feared the weird,

She was part of this peculiar plan. I love her so much,

Just the gentlest of touch ignites all emotions.

Sixteen we were, she knew me then as I am now.

Our life together is finite, I wish I could say the word love

But then most men can't, so I'm no different than most,

For once. He threw his pen and cried bitterly again.

He was black. No jazz, singing, dancing, just a human.

A grocer's help. BORN WITHOUT EYES.

Hell, what you've not had, you've not missed.

Samuel's pen poised momentarily; he could still cry.

Black plastic and webbery thin bugs crawled in the shed

And they weren't inspiration. But he knew they were there.

The tears, words, giggles flowed, he was in a kindly vice

For even the tears were kind. Samuel fell to sleep.

The Sun came up with Samuel, he sorted his poetry mound,

As was habit. Sunday's word free. But my family were free

And I would hug them and love them and love them again

And we would play and play and eat and drink.

And I would silently scream to God for my tongue

Which was not a gift at birth. So my secret gift?

My inspiration? Is the life that lives in my hands,

And on and within my body and brain and soul.

Yes I see it I feel it, it is a world.

So poor Samuel didn't take a permanent rest

No eyes, no tongue but my words will take you out.

Welcome to my life and whence are thou my stranger?

Samuel's secret gift was kept within friends and family.

Critique this work

Click on the book to leave a comment about this work

All Authors (hi-speed)    All Authors (dialup)    Children    Columnists    Contact    Drama    Fiction    Grammar    Guest Book    Home    Humour    Links    Narratives    Novels    Poems    Published Authors    Reviews    September 11    Short Stories    Teen Writings    Submission Guidelines

Be sure to have a look at our Discussion Forum today to see what's
happening on The World's Favourite Literary Website.