A GREAT TIME
We are at the P.S.convention at a table of four.
Sitting at our table was me,Michael and two more.
They were speaking about poetry and our poet friends.
We're laughing and saying to each other hope this night
never ends.
They were late but Andrea and Linda-Maria finally showed.
Andrea said the reason we're late we had to find a place
to park so we wouldn't get towed.
So as the night wynnded down and fun was over.
Remember a poetry friend is like no other.
Teresa Skyles
Teresa,Michael,Andrea,Linda-Marie
Entered in Michael Falotico's"A table of four"contest
N oticeably your poetry takes me on a journey
I n fact, I sail along the currents of your words
K iss and tell this meter exploring your verbs
K eypad on fire and your fingertips just dance
O dysseys of desire your poetry inspires romance
I like to write poetry because:
Be it brash or sublime,
There's a thought tucked inside,
And I may become smitten,
By the poetry I've written,
And whether standin' or sittin'-
Tis fun!
and then some!
There are moments of absolute peace
when I forget where I was when I was
in love with a man, not just any man.
Usually in dreams there is no romance,
but rather another inclination of purpose.
I’m reading poetry that is not confessional,
in the midst of writing my long confession.
Robert Hayden has dropped into my lap,
a book of his poems left behind in my house
by some friend, some poet friend. She
believed I could be a poet, too. Such friends
are rare, and rarer the dream of life.
Forgotten, but not gone, all those gone on,
a shelf of poetry, books, her journals, odds
and ends stored in plastic boxes, just in case.
What if there was never such a one again,
such a friend, such a time, such a hope?
There isn’t any reason to believe any more
that I am more than mortal dust, just enough
to keep going to work another day, to read
all the books of poetry a friend left behind
when her health failed and she moved away.
Where are you now my good friend? I reach
for another book of the poetry left on my shelf.
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