What strange bedfellows
This group of poets and writers can be
Tethered as we are by love of words.
We gather, talk, drink coffee, eat snacks
And give up our offering for the night.
Poets and writers find they are all crazy or eccentric or bored, with
Inability to have a conversation unless we are behind the computer keys.
Some are lazy, and all are addicted to the written word, especially our own--
That creative spirit don’t you know.
I heard all other poets are jokes, can’t write, are idiots,
That some are self-absorbed and write like teenagers in love
Instead of the wizened intelligencia that we are.
I know he thinks a masters degree is the only proof that you can write,
That gives you the right to put pen to paper,
While she is sure it’s a god given talent or calling.
We enjoy jealousy, envy, disorganization, all to different degrees
And we decree when it’s us against the pitiful non-writer,
That we have the answer
But unlike the evangelist’s fervor,
We don’t think everyone is privy to it.
But when we gather, oh, when we gather
It’s is the most beautiful thing
To see, talk to, and be with the only other people who know what we are about,
Who can delve into their very souls and tell me about mine and yours.
They can make us weep with their words and laugh at the same.
They have me in the palm of their hands
And to be near them is to be truly me.