The Yellow Brick Road

"You are young. It’s springtime and you find yourself walking down a dirt road with a cut on your knee…"

FREE WRITE FRIDAY

http://magicinthebackyard.wordpress.com

gives us a dual prompt.....both picture and words

THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

It seemed I walked in Fairyland, with the yellow road ahead,

I daydreamed I was acting in a scene.

I was Judy Garland, and so I started singing;

I was happier than I had ever been.

'Over the rainbow' I sang out, in a voice that was merely loud,

And not the sort of voice that earns much praise!

'If pretty little bluebirds fly' I carolled to the heavens;

'Why can't I ?'...I rolled my tongue around the phrase.

The flowers bedecked the hedgerows and their scent hung on the air;

The birds were singing madly, fit to bust.

I was young and I was beautiful, as the young always are.

But my daydream was about to turn to dust.

I was gazing at the cloudless sky and warbling away,

When I tripped-up on a stone and fell down flat!

My lovely little daydream became a reality check

And my lovely song became the one word 'Drat!'

My knee was bleeding badly and I wished my Mum were there,

To help me and apply a soothing kiss.

How could such a disaster come about on such a day?

Completely gone my dreams of song-bird bliss!

I limped along just snivelling, feeling sorry for myself

As the blood ran down my leg into my shoes.

Gone was all my pleasure in the yellow road and birds;

Gone my appreciation of the views.

For a great bank of cloud had swelled and grown there on my left!

The drops of rain were bouncing off the ground.

Soon I was bedraggled and soaked right to the skin

As the thunder made a loud and threatening sound.

*

I was only thirteen but I learned a truth that day......

'Pride comes before a fall',  the Fates declare .

Still, I couldn't help rejoicing at the fact that, for a while,

I was Judy, I was singing, I was there!

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HELP IS AT HAND!

Such a simple cover and yet it says it all!

We're certain that this pencil has been guilty of some scrawl.

We see the writer writing, then binning the result,

Lapsing into lachrymose, when he's longing to exult!

We see him grip the pencil hard, until it snaps in two;

No doubt he first attacked it with an agonising chew!

We see the eraser on the end! It's nearly worn away.

The wretched scribbler cannot find the perfect words to say! 

Is it an apology that occupies his mind?

Is it a guilty conscience that makes words  hard to find?

Is it a declaration of undying, endless love?

Is he requesting money? Is that what he's thinking of?

Is he intent on telling lies about some situation?

Is he involved in two-timing or some other complication?

Whatever occupies his mind this book will help him out.

He'll find the very words to write, of that I have no doubt.

'Words to the Rescue'! Yes, indeed! And he need search no more!

Inside the cover 'the answer' lies! Isn't that what books are for?

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