The poem was a friend,

the tried and trusted companion

of countless open-mics,

an anthology, blogs,

and three slams,

one a triumph.

He loved that poem,

loved the fact that others loved it too,

sometimes read it aloud

to himself,

caught himself,

as it lay on a table, touching it, patting it,

looking at the crumpled, much-traveled paper

with gentle eyes and warm heart.

 

He spoke to it,

it had so much of himself in it.

Sometimes it seemed to talk back.

Sometimes the flow between them seemed alive,

and then he could almost believe

in the Trinity.

The father, the word, the spirit.

 

But then, for a while, it said too much.

It said

“You will never write anything better than me”

“You're over the hill, old man,

you've shot your bolt.”

“I'm as tired as you are,

put me out to grass.”

 

Friends became concerned,

family worried,

no-one understood.

The moods, the silence,

the staring into nothing,

the frantic scribbling,

the tearing of paper.

 

And then one day, on a wall,

he read the words of the Teacher, the son of David.

There is a time for every purpose under heaven,

a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to search and a time to give up,

a time to keep and a time to throw away.

 

And he went home

took out the poem

and said

“You were right,

you were perfectly correct.

But we are in this together.

We will carry on,

and take what comes,

my friend.”

 

not autobiographical - I've never won a slam, and never will.