Jeff Connelly Poet I do not know?

Play That Funky Bouzouki White Boy

trying to sleep
take a simple nap
but the whirling
dervishes in my
mind won't stop
stomping or
dancing

and as i'm "one
who delights in all
manifestations of the
terpsichorean muse" my
memories remind me of a
time on the island of Thera
Greece where each of us to be

leaving the next morning
invited a friend who
invited a friend 
and we all sat
down at the
psari (fish)
taverna

it was a regular U.N. of
travellers and back
packers and like
a meeting at
the Hague
we took
over

the place much to the
owner's happiness
as we ordered 
and ate and
sated our
thirst
on

homemade Retsina
so much so that
we drank every
drop of what
was made
but even
a kiwi

pleaded
he'd drink 
the dregs to
keep elated but
the owner was already
pouring thank you shots
of ouzo with many linguistic

cheers
he knew 
what he was
going to do to
cheer his new 
found friends for
with this the night 

would end
with sudden
static sounds of
wires popping he
had plugged in an
electric bouzouki to
yells whoops and hollers

of broken
accents of
broken Greek
and English asking
turn the amp to eleven
and do  you  know   any
                               Hendrix

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Maureen McGreavy Pigeon Tart August 23, 2019 at 12:44 PM Wonderful! Maureen McGreavy Pigeon Tart August 24, 2019 at 9:55 AM It is a story. A poetic one at that. I'd say you could file this one under "narrative". And btw, if I repeat myself, I've had memory issues since my first TBI ;), Jeff Connelly August 23, 2019 at 10:20 PM Maureen, I do appreciate your comment, and even though this is a true story; reflecting on what I wrote, I think it's bad poetry. Remembering it made me laugh but writing it should have been a story. Thanks Maureen.