W. S. Mayo

W. S. Mayo, who goes by the moniker "the Old Hack," has published a variety of articles, short stories, and poems in the small press starting a little over 15 years ago. Recent publications include the California State Poetry Quarterly, Black Creek Review, and PoetryMagazine.com. Also, he has had Letters to the Editor published in such venues as The Washington Post and Poets & Writers Magazine.

Mr. Mayo is a member of Other Words Studio, located in Frederick, MD and takes pride in the heritage of eccentrics that makes up life in Fredericktowne.

The Old Hack

He sits at an old, worn mechanical typewriter,
slowly pounding out the words.
First with one finger.
Then with two.
His gray hair and sunken cheeks,
wrinkle-crossed brow give truth
to the lie that he is a writer.
A letter, a poem, a story,
a novel; all in a day's work.
24 hours does the hack,
day and night, sleeping and waking.
Words are many, tales are several,
truth is hard to come by.
He pounds out one more word.

The Agitator

He stands among the streets,
a bookend for his stool.
Pulling lapels, shouting slogans,
calling the cops by every filthy name,
hauling the traffic to its knees.
He speaks words to the masses;
the masses do not care.
Calls for revolution;
the revolution has come and gone.
When at last they take him away,
his words are full of rightiousness.
Decay quickly follows.

Moonrise, 1998

When the night never seems to rise,
and the night never seems to end,
and the crows gather by the dozen at dawn.
There for the feasting and the hunger
for all things dark.
Then it is that an aching in the heart
will turn into a yearning for all things.
Then begins the journey.
There where the scarecrow
meets the neverending road.
Footsteps sound loudly in the dark.

The Poet

He strings his verses
in beats of five.
Checks the spelling and the grammar
and throws it all out the window.
Begins anew,
one hand on the Muse,
one eye on the grim compass
that stares at him his waking hours.
Finally, dreams again,
a sunrise in his every palm.