We Are Word Players

I spit poems onto a page with increasing velocity bam, wham, dram, cram, jamb, bam, flam! Feeling like the flim-flam man that I am, I do not wait for responses Not caring about any opinions but my own The seasoned poets invariably understand throwing down their own missives at incredible speed Breaking the limit and the barrier, engrossed and enthralled. We are word players, imaginations on fire, muses all aglow. The words fall into jumbled piles, worrying us not. Flowery missives wink their petals at us, But we are in the zone, not paying attention. The poems slide, twirl, whirl, and pirouette. One of them stops to pinch my cheek and call me “Charlie”. It is more than enough to keep me happy.