Do these poets and poetesses desire a
career on the
Silver screen
Name up in lights
Flowers down at
Feet? It seems that way tonight.
Would they rather they were a singer or
rapper
The label ‘poet’ as just a temporary
affliction?
The question hangs in the air.
They writhe and shout and contort
themselves while lost
In the moment (Or if not the moment then a moment.
Yet still nowhere near Jimi inside the Star
Spangled banner)
And exuding confidence, the crowd falls
In line
Laughing
And then the dreaded WHOO
I hate the whoo
Call me a traditionalist
Call me an old
Man
Call me a hater and jealous and better than
you
And I am all these things
But some words are meant to be read
Not read
Out
And while there are exceptions to the rule
– this
Particular night was saved by SW – they are
few
It is for Carl GJ to discern the
introvert/extrovert ratio
I am just here to listen
To make it through to the beautiful
reflection of the
Cold and dark, in one piece
Back home alone in my small silent corner
To write about them while they
Tour the stages of the
World.