Poet's Progress

While trying to write a story,
just a short one, not too long,
my head was full of characters
who could rise above the throng.

Protagonists with charm to spare,
young princesses with golden hair,
heroes conquering inner fears,
celebrating with ice-cold beers.

Soon my head became polluted,
plots all sounded convoluted.
But that was not my biggest crime,
for every line began to rhyme

It looked like writing prose had died,
and soon I sat alone and cried.
Yet nothing dies without a fight,
So I tried again a tale to write.

No narrative or dialogue,
appeared from my poetic smog.
No paragraph extravaganza,
just another bloody stanza.

Then guess who came to witness this slaughter?
Mrs duh-Duh and her lovely daughters,
Anapest, Dactyl, Trochee and Iamb,
just as I shouted, “I don’t give a damn!”

Embarrassed, I offered to retract my words,
for upsetting those young remarkable birds.
But to my consternation never mind surprise,
they assured me I need not apologise.

Having watched me get myself in a pickle,
they’d shared belly laughs and a hearty tickle,
then promised to help me progress on my way,
saying I’d be a poet by the end of the day.

I scoffed at their offer with low expectation,
but listened to them talk of interpretation.
“If you don’t understand, don’t get in a tizzy,
sit down, have a rest, don’t make yourself dizzy.

Forget what it says; think what is it for.
Is it literal, lateral or metaphor?
If it’s still not there and starts causing you pain,
clear your head, plant a seed and read it again

When the egg in your head becomes fertilized,
providing a wonderful sight for sore eyes,
the picture develops and leaps from the page,
You have it! Eureka! You’re in a new age.”

I thanked them and said they were no longer needed,
for all their helpful advice would be heeded.
Now nothing can stop me, I’ll soon be a star,
Because I can now see when a door is a jar.