Mar 2010
You stroll in calmly
The quietest person
Yet the loudest personality
You sit expectations high
no preconceptions
Palms heated
sweating into your thigh
Watch an older man take stage
No song
no dance
Flowing words
Falling down on def ears
Half tuned people
preoccupied with their today's
He bares his soul
Not one
glance
Tells you of dreams
They sing more like memories
Puts his heart on a platter
The soft clicks of keys are his applause
And I don't wish to become that poet.
An older gentleman now
looking some what feeble
He begins to read
what may be..
He is quieter now
Unless the cacophony of
latteskeystrokesjangelingkeyschange&jowls;
Is rising above
Above the man he wanted to be.
He still reads
Sounds are disappearing now
As does his voice
He strained to be heard
amongst the din
Now he is shrinking further into himself
And this is the poet I do not want to become.
Round two (cue gentleman #1)
He begins-
Not with a poem but a diatribe
I see him abuse the society it has become
His knowledge is visible
If only on the jagged ****** lines
I'm keen on his disposition
Almost applauding for him when he states
We come to this nouveau coffee house
Only to sit alone together.
Drop your wifi lose your phone
Learn to be human again inside.
Subtly heads appear from buried positions
Whispering with quiet indignation.
Just then he snaps to
Comes back full circle
Only to read something by Thoreau.
An inaudible applause grates across the room
cue the second man once again....
mutter mutter
concluded with dull thunder
"Would any one else like to share?"
"oh no's"
"Oh me oh my's"
"How could I's"
therefore it ends..
we will see you all again the Fourth Sunday of the month.
I came to find out if there was a scene
a movement a shared idea
I don't care too much sell me an ideal.
I landed in a poets grave.
They are still fighting
They will keep writing
Burning to be heard
just wanting to share
what they have learned
needing to expose others to passions
this is a poets grave
On a Sunday in the afternoon
In a college town
Dreaming of becoming metropolitan
where chic once lived and again they will
where people once spoke to one another
yet no longer bother to exchange basic courtesy
it was once magical
maybe it still is
if only because it has now become lore
my hats tipped towards you
Sunday pm poets
you are still stronger than I
The quietest person
Yet the loudest personality
You sit expectations high
no preconceptions
Palms heated
sweating into your thigh
Watch an older man take stage
No song
no dance
Flowing words
Falling down on def ears
Half tuned people
preoccupied with their today's
He bares his soul
Not one
glance
Tells you of dreams
They sing more like memories
Puts his heart on a platter
The soft clicks of keys are his applause
And I don't wish to become that poet.
An older gentleman now
looking some what feeble
He begins to read
what may be..
He is quieter now
Unless the cacophony of
latteskeystrokesjangelingkeyschange&jowls;
Is rising above
Above the man he wanted to be.
He still reads
Sounds are disappearing now
As does his voice
He strained to be heard
amongst the din
Now he is shrinking further into himself
And this is the poet I do not want to become.
Round two (cue gentleman #1)
He begins-
Not with a poem but a diatribe
I see him abuse the society it has become
His knowledge is visible
If only on the jagged ****** lines
I'm keen on his disposition
Almost applauding for him when he states
We come to this nouveau coffee house
Only to sit alone together.
Drop your wifi lose your phone
Learn to be human again inside.
Subtly heads appear from buried positions
Whispering with quiet indignation.
Just then he snaps to
Comes back full circle
Only to read something by Thoreau.
An inaudible applause grates across the room
cue the second man once again....
mutter mutter
concluded with dull thunder
"Would any one else like to share?"
"oh no's"
"Oh me oh my's"
"How could I's"
therefore it ends..
we will see you all again the Fourth Sunday of the month.
I came to find out if there was a scene
a movement a shared idea
I don't care too much sell me an ideal.
I landed in a poets grave.
They are still fighting
They will keep writing
Burning to be heard
just wanting to share
what they have learned
needing to expose others to passions
this is a poets grave
On a Sunday in the afternoon
In a college town
Dreaming of becoming metropolitan
where chic once lived and again they will
where people once spoke to one another
yet no longer bother to exchange basic courtesy
it was once magical
maybe it still is
if only because it has now become lore
my hats tipped towards you
Sunday pm poets
you are still stronger than I
