home again, home again

What makes a writer?

We all gather here

Young old fat thin wealthy poor

Voluble or quiet

Shy or maybe bold

Even princess but no prince

No matter

We all write silent songs

Some saunter in

Bulging pockets stuffed with

Words

They pull out at random

Glue to the old chalk board in

Confusing stinking chaos

Then they name it poetry 

They insist you must read

Perhaps they serve a garden salad

Leafy words already in decay

Which they sniff like aged cheese

And pair with white wine

Others fold origami poems

Engineered with wings

Toss them at you

Boeing planes of paper

That always bank awry

Crash into other words

Made mountains made seas

A few possess talent

Make memories into magic

Slip sly notes from desk

To desk

Where sly mouths silent

Smile back their pleasure

In the read

Here are writers who can write

All that kicking in the third

Trimester, about which

Mother proudly whined

Was nothing more than writer’s block 

Ill temper in the little one

Writing and writing 

Writing in the womb

Here are masters of the craft

Carpenters of line of rhyme

Plumb-bobbed poems

Straight and true

Like hypnotists on stage

Journeymen and women poets

May put you in a trance

While they sit at a distance

Safe before a desk

Not even wearing pants

They can make you laugh

At nothing

Make you weep with 

Made up sorrow

Ask you count your chickens

Today and tomorrow 

Make notes in the ledger

Only you can see to borrow

Yet

It ain’t no game

They can write serious

For serious people

They write of life’s big moments

Pick and choose the details

To whittle on

Bring emotions down to size

Sick with love afraid you’ll lose

That woman of mercury moods

Instead you marry algebra

An equation of partnership 

New stresses multiply her storms

New threats to leave

Forever - forever free of

Love’s demands

Screams from the birthing bed

There’s the 

head of a daughter

You hold her with new love

So strange, unknown, skinning knife sharp

This love……

You hasten to a toilet

To retch

A circle formed of childhood friends

Circled round a bottle Boys

Of aged Kentucky bourbon

For me it holds grave gravity

Drink a dram down my friends

Then another then another

Let us toast my dear dead Mother

A new job, new staff, new friends

Your marriage took a sideways slide

A big down and almost out

Employee Becky

Hands you her business card

Hand written- If you need anything-

Anything at all - call on me

Danger there……

And who doesn’t enjoy a little

Danger?

Do we write our own eulogies?

Damn straight we do

Who better, huh?

So go fling some ash

Search my will for cash

Long ago

Such lies I wrote 

Such praise I heaped upon

Myself 

You may well wonder

Did they burn the wrong body?

Reviews

[Desert Knave]

I like the way this ambles along the garden path of poetry. Many years ago I had to leave my favorite poetry site ... I don't know if I will move again. Nicely done. ~Jim

[Michael Sun Bear]

Thanks Jim. I think I am committed to two or three sites but WC will always be home.

[DIVYA]

I enjoyed this poem so much. Such a myriad of feelings and thoughts associated with poetry and poets. It creates an entire universe. Your words provoke much thought. Why do we write poetry - skilled, unskilled, deep, shallow and so on? We all have our reasons but one thing I know - Poetry was a journey for me. One of the sweetest and most lasting experiences of my life. I know I'll never rise beyond my present level of writing but I'll keep at it because I just love it and get to know my own mind with it.

[Michael Sun Bear]

I am glad you enjoyed the poem and appreciate your thoughtful comments. While I wrote this out of joy that writerscafe was up and running again, it is more about my journey exploring other writers websites while WC was down. I found one site where the level of poetry was generally pretty awful, two where the quality was much better. But WC is my home; I hope it keeps running ok.

[DIVYA]

I hope the same too. I'm not going anywhere.