I see my name in print whenever I look at my Social Security card.

I’d rather it be noticed in the bright lights on a theatre marquee on Broadway, but

to some, that’s hard.

I had dreams of being a ballplayer, but the hardball at ninety miles per scared the hell out

of me.

I tried golf. Hitting a ball from a stationary tee. That’s a game that can cause insanity.

So, I settled on a pencil. Never knew how fast words could flow.

It’s easy to write a novel and get published or write a Broadway show.

All together now! Ho! Ho! Ho!

Van Gogh should have been a writer. He knew about pain that writers endure

Like “It’s great but it won’t sell. Too bad you’re not George Bernard Shaw.”

In his fifties he got noticed. Pygmalion was finally understood.

All people had to do was listen to his words. They were really good.

“Got anymore?” he was asked. He calmly answered “sure.”

Years of sweat had accumulated so many stories and,

they were all in his bureau drawer.

 

As for me, I’m approaching fifty. Maybe sixty, seventy or ninety. Who counts anymore?

My brain’s alive with thoughts. Rejection? Let me count the ways…forevermore.

What do I write? Who knows? Over that I have no control.

Where the ideas come from? Who the hell knows? Maybe from God. Then I’m on a roll.

Feels so good, just to get it out. The epitome of being free.

To put out thoughts for the world to see, but in reality, I’m doing it for me.

That’s why I settled on a pencil. Never knew how fast words could flow.

It’s easy to write a novel and get published or write a Broadway show.

All together now! Ho! Ho! Ho!

Alvin H. Goldberg

 Great Neck