Poetry Club Meeting (Rm 222, Dec. 4)

Words scatter 

             don’t scare them away

we tread with trepidation -- slowly, they gather

again

           Po-e-try, in fragments, heated to molten glass, 

shaped to your taste

 

Scritch, the tick of a clock, pens scratch and         pause, then

the deadline compels us to start again

a discreet hum, whistling in the air, we come close and listen

 

Unfold your new page, brush the keyboard -- 

                           a meeting, but not wholly so

a moment instead, a space, extending effortlessly

             where meaning shifts,

alive

 

in progress

The Lone Cat

MA

16 years old

More by The Lone Cat

  • exoticism

    grey eyes
    stare, openly
    at the flesh of elephant plums
    raw and hanging, dripping with a sour earthiness
    open your fists, green guava
    soon dropped upon the shore
    of a tall-tiered world, singing of poverty and praises