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SNOWJOB:poetry from the mind and soul of snow
THE CHAIR The coffee house crowds applause faded, the previous poet slid back into her seat. It was quiet. I rose walking towards the now empty chair. My heart thumped inside my chest. clenched in my fist a scrap of paper. On it my first haiku. I've barely wrote anything since high school, but this writing mattered. I nearly collided into another would be reader. he quickly stepped back, encouraging the new guy to go. I'm not a complete stranger to speaking in public yet I never read my words before. After introducing myself, I received a warm greeting some shouted out their names as well. I couldn't calm down, my voice quivered, my hands trembled, maybe my soul shook. I barely looked up. when I finished there was polite applause. I liked the second one, a strange man in the corner offered. I scurried back to my seat, which now seemed farther away then when I left it. My mind still raced as my pulse finally slowed. Were my poems any good? Did I read with emotion? I'm not sure, guess it doesn't matter, but sharing with that group seemed very important. A door has been opened, and I eagerly run through it. where it goes I'm not sure but I'm certain I'll be sitting in that chair again.
__________________________________________ An earlier version of The Chair was published in the September edition of Experimental Forest
| If She'd be pretty if she lost some weight, smiled more ,didn't smoke, never spoke, nicer clothes, different hair and nay not even then. |
Basic Needs
food, clothing and shelter. God, love, family and friends. Health rest, peace of mind and more time to write. | |
Finders Keepers I saw a black pen laying in a grass less spot at the edge of a shrinking lake. I picked it up. Who left it here? a lawyer? doctor? or accountant? None of them to be found. To my right I noticed a frog attempting to allude a group of frolicking kids. To my left there was an empty path that led to a trail into the pine needle covered forest. The lake shimmered as two rowboaters glided by. Fluffy white clouds danced with the light blue sky. But no one noticed this pen, to be here it must of been owned by a poet....... if not it is now. |