The review says my poems are accessible
and I know that is a gold star
on something so easily otherwise considered
not something one reads on the fly
though quite the contrary, one does or one can
I do anyhow
keep a dog-eared volume
within easy reach for a metered pause
now and then and again
The volumes change-out of course
famous old school to popular lowercase
he said, she said, now more they saids,
collections and anthologies and
the short-but-sweet chaps
Which is not to say they all get gold stars
some enhance my furrowed brow,
deepen the lines that live there,
make me close-up a book with a clap
some even, I confess, make me feel small
stupid, insipid, imposter
Like the time that Rogue Poet
infiltrated my writing group
and made us all feel somehow lacking
somehow not good enough
somehow not even poets
Like the time the Queen Bee
sat in the front row and watched
the little drone vibrate so much the mic shook
and the poems fell sharp and hard to the ground
and her look — just her look — said
you are not something one reads at all
ever, not even on the fly
I wonder sometimes if they were real,
the Rogue and the Queen Bee,
and not some amalgamation of my self
and all of her inner critics —
you are a fabrication, imitator, mutt
with no pedigree for poetry
stop now please
But someone — or someones —
think I am deserving of a gold star
5 stars sometimes too
with accolades and atta girls
and just enough kindness to make me feel
momentarily monumentally poetic.
Photo by ArtHouse.
If you like this poem, you’ll love the poems in my new book…
randomactsofwriting.net 