At Marquette Senior Living, poetry lovers meet twice each month to share poetry. We call it Poets’ Corner. Some of us write poetry (not always good poetry); some come just to listen to others read. We talk about poets we like and poems we remember from childhood. We don’t always agree. Some think a poem must rhyme or it isn’t really a poem. We learn about the many forms poetry can take. We also try to convince poetry haters to give poetry another chance. In this group we don’t have to memorize a poem and stand up in front of the class and recite. That may be the beginning of hating poetry.
Here’s a few originals from Poets’ Corner.
By Jo Lesher
I first met Lord Byron
In Miss Moore’s Literature class
When in High School
I was in love with love
And may still be
Lord Byron Touched my soul.
Miss Moore’s true love
Was taken from her in WWI
She would never marry.
Byron spoke of undying love
Of love lost to death
Of pain felt while seeing battlefields.
Though time has changed what mirror reflects
My mind, my heart remains forever young
Because Lord Byron spoke thru Miss Moore to me.
ODE TO DANDELIONS
By Alice Palma
Dandelions! Harbingers of spring!
Delight to the eye, warmth to the soul!
Promise of sunny days , they bring
Happy thoughts with golden glow.
Childlike, hold them to your face,
The yellow shine is summer’s trace.
A LION ON MY STREET
By Mike Chester
My friend yelled at me “There’s a lion on our street”!
Best we kill it now ere we become its’ meat.
Grabbed my gun and joined him for the kill
Together a mission to fulfill
A lion hunt was dangerous duty, for huntsmen such as we
And our neighbors depended on huntsmen much like me
I stalked the beast with cunning skill
And found him hiding, awaiting the kill
His or mine, it had to be
But his fiery eyes said it had to be me.
I could have run, but a coward I’m not
‘Bout now, my insides were in knots
The lion crouched, ready to leap
I shouldered my gun a trophy to keep
He leaped. I shot. The recoil causing me to waken
With my mother at my side, my temperature being taken
The lion was gone, not a trophy this day
My pox being all I could display
But with my BB gun in hand, I’ll stalk that lion soon
After I escape this sick-room of gloom.
By Jo Lesher
Snow people once stood
Where green spikes pierce thru damp soil
Sand shifts endlessly
Spring paints with blossoms
Bursting forth on stem and tree
Grief remains inside
National Poetry Month:
“On Gathering Artists”
by Alberto RiosClick here to read…
from the Academy of American Poets (www.poets.org)
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