Saturday, August 14, 2010

Living poets

We come to the garden of the dead
Peter lacing his prose of the news so laden with human dread, quirky quatrains of this world which, alas, is mad.
Topaz will tell a story, rhythmed in beat with her aching heart, a old hippy that never gave up, but thinks she may start.
Karen will make melody of the burden, as her husband sits quietly.
Jean takes her time pondering the leaves of society.
Katie will recount the nature, naturally in tune, recounting happier times as the echo of a loon across still waters.
Aron will home a tome written with resolution, clawed with the slapping steel drum, the joy of the ink press exciting his mind and fingertips to sublime inquisition.
John will say a dirty couplet, given the time a thousand limericks, lighthearted, quite jovial, a nod to Service and several anonymous bar room bards.
Serge will cant a witty wondering, a whimsy so whimsical with wit you might laugh till you shit.
Anne Page will pipe in in her sweet note a merry warble of a bird that has seen the world from it's highs to lows and breath tears and laughter into her prose.
Anne Butler will yell at someone to speak up, then quietly contemplate footprints mysteriously washed into the sea.
I, your humble narrator, will relate a poem that relates to me, not in vanity, but in honesty, as it is the only world I can truly see.
And Suad sit in the corner in awe. Listening appreciatively.
We come to the garden alive and will never leave as long as you recant this scene.

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