I write my poems
Then post them online
For all the world to see
And I never noticed that I
Am writing the tale of me.
I never felt a moment's fear
That some would read here
Any kind of indictment
Or make hurtful judgment,
Though some have before.
Even those I don’t ignore.

I am weaving piecemeal
A  harlequin coat of words
That, when they are heard,
Tell you more than asking
More than admitting aloud
Under oath to an eager crowd
Of prosecutors and accusers
And those who support me
Waiting in their seats, hoping
I won’t quit telling, revealing
The tale of a man who rhymes.
It is nearly my only crime.

Please accept, it is only humming,
Something you may do at work;
Me jerking a pen and scribbling.
Don’t bother with quibbling
Because that is what it is,
Doodling, noodling, muttering
But doing it on paper, lettering
Making tuneless music from me
So others can see and happily
Decide to keep it or share it.
I don’t care. It matters not to me.
I give my literary gifts freely.

I was overwhelmed by the enthusiastic response this poem received when I posted it last month.  As it seemed to resonate with the current prevailing mood, I figured I'd try a quick spoken word video to go with it.  

Thank you again to everyone who commented on, liked, added and reposted the written version.

https://youtu.be/wGxRvuMWCig

Credit for filming and editing goes to Cornelius Something of Manufacturing Content  
manufacturingcontent.co.uk

And even on my most
forgetful days
days when I can’t remember
what happened in an Austen novel
nor the last time I thought
of others before myself
you are still a poem
on those forgetful days
that I memorized several years ago
perched on the sill of my tongue
waiting
like birds
to take off into a
disinterred sky
waiting to be recited before a
disinterested crowd.

I attended a poetry session today,
Enacted by poets through their
Onomatopoeic, gesticulated gestures,
Clenched fist-ed, strained or wide-eyed,
Shifting their weight from one foot to another,
Like dodging their public speaking fears,
To the other leg,
As they tried to build
A rapport with the audience,
Through their words as they (the words) sifted
Through the folds of the air
To make a silent thud against
An attentive soul's solid, soiled exterior.

While reciting, looking into lit screens,
Scrolling up and down,
And trying to look for that line,
That trail of thought which was (most) perfect
Only in its untimely, chaotic, vague birth in that mind.
As the poets tried to familiarise
Themselves with their feelings
Presented on a fresh paper in
A font different from how
It had felt in that first gush of thoughts,
When they had probably first thought of
Penning down their thoughts,
Wise as they were to realise how
Precious they were.
Maybe they wanted to
Articulate their thoughts in written,
But ended up pinning them down.