It Must Be Nice (for writers everywhere)

It Must Be Nice
Though not precisely fraught with strife,
there are plenty of barbs in a writer's life.
Late night edits, rewrites, too—
rejection letters (just a few).
Friends who try, but never quite get
the reason we are so beset
with doubt, angst, frustration, fear,
and on occasion, angry tears.
"It must be nice to work from home;
and just relax, no need to roam.
It must be nice to sit and type.
I have a REAL job— not to snipe."
It must be—in that fantasy
you've dreamed up as your view of me.
Please, call or drop by— just feel free
to interrupt what you can't see.
Those pages? Those are sheets of pain
torn from my tired, laboring brain.
And if I run, and if I hide
in some cafe for peace to write?
"It must be nice to have the time
to sit and sip and and blow a dime."

But it IS nice. Sometimes that's true.
Sometimes there's joy in what I do.
I labor, weep, self-flagellate
despise the work, languish in hate
for every word that isn't right,
for every miserable sleepless night.
Then something clicks. The words, the pace,
the tumblers grumble into place.
Then SHE said this; then HE said that;
then their eyes met, and... and... then... DRAT!
No! Wait! I've got it! Then, she fell
and THIS— YES! There! That works quite well!
That stupid grin you spy me flash
as you drive by my cafe-crash
and spot me sporting in my seat?
It's not a facebook fun-time treat.
That joy, that rise, that breaking through
is what the suffering we do
is all about— this sweet, wild drug
of inspiration's endless tug,
becoming THIS NEW THING WE MADE—
becoming something we won't trade
for better hours, and understanding,
and tolerance, and hopes of landing
that next account, or that next raise,
and being given endless praise.

Am I rich now? You ask and smirk,
it's not as if I really WORK.
Don't writers make a million? More?
Can I have a copy? Three or four?
Signed? I'll share with all my friends
this labor of your endless ends.
You must be so proud of what you did—
hey, since you're home, my dog, my kid,
my ass-or-elbow for the night—
could you be so good, while you write?
Oh, I don't read much. Not my thing.
But since you're the new Steven King
and won't be busy, just with writing,
(and all the movie offers biting),
I'll drop off junior, you don't mind,
With all that writey-time you find.
Eight dollars? Wow, that seems a lot
for just one BOOK, I hope you got
a big advance like JK Rowling.
Oh, we just can not stop extolling
how clever you are! How worth that price!
The writer's life... it must be nice.
                          ©Chrissy Olinger

The Washer Woman's Wings

The Washer Woman's Wings
Christine Olinger

Old washer woman
with your cloak about you
lifting in the wind
like wings-- dark wings,
do you kneel there,
in the clay
of my long lost loves
to remind me?

Counting out
your scraps and cloths
like beans,
counted nigh on
to thirteen.

Is it thirteen?

Your numbers
never frightened me,
nor joining them
if it comes to that.

Your numbers
never called me,
though I've
heard the song
til it sings along
the strings of my soul.

They can clamour
outside my window,
howl and rage
in the misty night.

Let them come.
Let them rage.
But oh, your rags--
dark, flapping wings--
your cloak
does look warm
on this chilly winter night.

Baby Blessing

Recently Romance Divas, The Sceptics' Tank, and several other of my online haunts seem to be teeming with new babies! About two years ago I wrote a baby blessing for some friends at their request. Since then many have asked to use it, print it, etc. I'm sharing it here:

Baby Blessing
by Chrissy Olinger for the Hawthorne Clan

May the moon shine its light and magic,
May the sun loan its strength and power.
May the winds lift the fuzz on your wee little head
And blow dandylion fluff in a shower
As the dragonflies, butterflies, buttercups
Dance and sway to your every delight.
May the stars watch and smile down upon you
As you dream wild things in the night.
May you always let mama protect you,
And always let daddy stand by
As you wander this new world with wonder
Piling wishes and promises high.

May the fields hold a million new treasures,
And the trees rustle soft overhead
As you laugh at the world's many pleasures
And the secrets you take to your bed.
Dream away, little wee precious darling.
Dream away, and be welcome to the world.
You are blessed, and cherished, and wanted,
Unconditional love 'round you curled!

Ode to Kyle

For Mel Francis, with love:

ODE TO KYLE

Beside the door,
out in the hall,
his presence noted--
though quite small,
eliciting spontaneous smile
surprised was I to meet him-- KYLE.

Perched on his head
upon the floor,
the sentry stood
outside my door
and met me daily
during my stay
at this year's conference-- RWA.

Oh golden lad!
Oh suctioning boy!
Oh, gently leaning
shy and coy
upon the wall,
no trace of smile
in utilitarian silence-- Kyle.

He'll be remembered;
he'll be missed.
He's seen the world--
or, where it's pissed.
I leave him to
fly many miles
but never will I forget Kyle.