Poetry Group

I arrive early for the meeting.
Row upon row of chairs
face forward, like a flock of sheep, 
nose to tail, waiting for a shepherd.

My grandmother raised sheep,
cows, pigs, geese, and children.
Grandpa buckled under tuburcolosis,
leaving her seven kids to raise.
"Waste not, want not," served well
as a mantra over rugged paths,
and pastured her fleecy days.

With no aid from government,
church, neighbor, or relative,
she prevailed where others failed,
sharing the bounty garnered 
from those wooly mammals 
of endless grazing.

As these empty chairs fill,
what shepherd will lead us
into the fold of words;
power words for change,
wisdom words for growth,
magic words for dreams,
with teeth piercing to the core,
strong jaws for chewing,
and sensitive tongue
to taste those other words
floating around these chairs
of tail-wagging writers?

animalchildrencouragegrandmotherpoetsfree verse

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