(On reading my work for the first time)
Walking the Plank at the Writers' Group
My pulse raced a bit, my legs were weak with anticipation
It was my turn to walk the plank, to come forward with hesitation
To be counted in the morning's tropical shade.
Aztec and Mayan knives cut to the heart
But stepping up and submitting myself
Would open a part of my soul to those assembled on deck
In the palapa of sharpened critique.
Newer shipmates we were
By my recent boarding of the HMS Writers' Group
They knew little and likely cared little at all
About their anxious-but-willing mate on that yawl.
Hell, I'd signed myself on so
No time for pity today, theirs or my own.
Undo these chains! Bring my sad soul hence
Let my walk out on the plank commence.
Should my new mates hear even a glimmer of promise
Traverse these dry lips as I offer up my work, my self to them
My trek would end quickly and mercifully
Not overboard, I would slip into their talented and welcoming arms.
But two steps o'er the plank turned to three
And three to four, then more
As my unstated promise of poetry or prose
Quickly melted and my new mates arose.
One after another, in near unison
Casting long shadows on the palapa floor
Even longer shadows on the frail frame of my work
Until the dampness of their critique wet my core
I was overboard!
Drowned? No.
A better writer? I hope so.
I'll write on and, doubtless, walk the plank once more
Those sharks won't leave me on the ocean's floor!