Poets gather for retreat
A man, a woman with their dog
they all come hither
to this dusty hall
words spoken- propelled
with no metered meaning
or measured gait
their poetry, their gift,
the evening slate,
they stand tall
a roll call of poets with weathered hands
clutching at their battered pages
with no control or structured gages
one- two, they rise
speaking abruptly, but some
- some quite quietly
speaking/ spoken
words out loud
their poetry/ their sound
beautiful/ broken/ besieged
they read,
words forthright
yet lost and shadowed
in a world hanging
up-side-down
round-a-bout
they chant
prideful/ dignified/ reminiscent
of fonder times
an evening spent responding
to an undying rolling tide
creative minds,
speaking words spoke to them
they come together to address
amidst the rafters
that hang above
their heady verses
hoisted high
voices of these poets sung-
All in all, it would seem, this empty room
that looks so dim, comes to life
with a mighty din, not
the usual silence
that begets
the quiet-ness
of this dusty hall-
this poet’s nest.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh revised 9/30/21
Photo by Darius Krause from Pexels
