Where's the Birthday Gal?

Sitting at blooming Outback Steak,

Drinking water for an hour’s wait,

Only 20 minutes have gone by,

The waiter just asked what’s arye?

Ordered appetizers, oh so right,

But don’t want to spoil my appetite,

Already made my dinner choice,

Looking up at the sound of every noise.

Playing tick tock now with Jim,

Killed 20 more minutes with a grin,

Have a present sitting in Nina’s place,

Looking forward to see her face.

Just got a text “almost there”,

The waiter asks Jim “another beer”?

Just 10 more minutes, it could have been worse,

I’ll put pen and paper in my purse.

Nina is here.

She is Thirteen.

“Outback Steak!

We are late!

Oh crap, oh well,

Birthday gal.”                                        Hanna P.

Poetry Lesson

"Why did that poem make me cry?", she asked.

"Why did that poem make you laugh?", 

  I asked another child.

"Because I was afraid to cry." 

  Noelie A.

Is this the Year?

Slant Light Poetry of Brunswick MD shared a link.
6 minutes ago · Edited
Praise of a father, a mother, an autistic kid. Exhilaration of a new business, anger at a pension stolen by a "bankrupt" corporation, a beautiful same gender marriage, the new Jim Crow, The horror of the American civil war revisited.... Is this the year you share your life with us ? Slammin' in the Belfry III, April 26 at https://www.facebook.com/beansinthebelfry
Contact Wayne poetsrebrunswick@gmail.com Spaces available.

Recruiting in the Citizen

Brunswick Citizen article March 20 Thanks Julie Maynard

Here's the article Julie Maynard at the Brunswick Citizen posted for us. Unless people are working clandestinely out there, we still need a couple for the minimum 12 to make an evening of it. (at this posting, the men outnumber the women...)

Tulips in Snow

(c) wtr 3/18 2014 all rights reserved

(c) wtr 3/18 2014 all rights reserved

Car Cad

Two little red freckles

Where the rusted screws

Of my license plate

Kissed her ample bumper.

She thinks it’s her fault

For stopping too soon.

I know it’s mine

For braking too late.

In any case, we’ve met.

She says she’s glad

To be involved

In an accident with a guy

As nice as me

After that, I can’t confess.

Having been declared in the right,

I feign the right to be

Gracious and forgiving.,

What would she think

If she knew the truth?

Probably the usual:

That all men lie to be loved.

And in the future,

She will look askance

At the fang marks

On her bumper and remember.

While I go about

My usual daily reverie,

Having had nothing indented

On my car or memory.

Derge  3/17/14

Retirement? to my husband and son.

I keep my pros and cons in pottery.
A red flame crock,
A bowl of celadon.
The crock has seventy
The blue bowl, two.

 Noelie A

Everyone's a Critic

What did he say?

The man who lived in the cave
That faced the Great Temple at Petra.

What did he say?
When they were building it.
Carving it.  Coaxing it out of the vertical sandstone.
Orange red
in the blazing heat.

Men died.  You know they did.
And he would have sat there
Staring at the unfolding drama, the splendor of the thing
from his little digs on the side of the hill.
Poking at his tiny fire.
Eating his hummus
Watching them create —
whether driven by whip or by the dreams of Ozymandias.

And what did he say?
This little man
With little dreams.

"Can't believe they made that choice with the elephants."
He might have mumbled.
"What were they thinking with that third set of columns?"
He probably yelled to the wife –
busy scrubbing his loincloth against a boulder and wondering where the last 20 years went.

"Cowboy architect!!"
He would have proclaimed.
Bedding down for the night in his darkened dwelling.
10x12x4 – all a man needs.

I'd rather live in the cave
On the cliff facing the Temple
At Petra.

I'd rather face the art
Than be the art -

Create the art -
Have the art baked over the coals.
Like the hummus.

What good is walking out of the majesty each morning
To feel the sun for a moment?
To run one's hands over the gritty-smooth undulations
Of creation.
Word made flesh.
Only to face that little man
Up on the hill.
Throwing his little sticks.

I'd rather face the temple I think.
A better view.
And I'm no good at transcendence.

blt

"Would you like a meal?"  She asked.

"Who is this Emil?"

"Bacon."She said.

"Brother of Sir Francis?"

No.

An unctuous offer of meat and salt.
Frying, crackling, erotic in hot fat;
compelling, drawing, penetrating fragrance of ....bacon.

Then

Red, bursting ripe, splashing juice tomato.
Acid, fleshy carnation on the white breast of bread.
Sweet, yielding, plump, yeasty fresh bread.

"Lettuce," she added.

"let us, indeed." Said I, arising.

Green, crisp, all texture, no flavor.

A touch of pepper, a little bitter is better.

Gild it all with golden mayonnaise,
great French gift from the ancient Mayans.

                                                          Ellis

14 14

I am not strong,
but I am proud.
I quietly bear, take pleasure, even,
in the small but steady load that I must carry.

Given more than I am built for,
my joints creak, I shift to the right--

& old angles slip into new comfy corners that
accommodate the weight of the latest parade.
(You have to let them get by!)

Beneath,
the CLOMP of cleats and drum-beats
rattle free crumbs for river creatures,
and splinters.

-S

The Drop-in Workshop

Tonight, Monday, March 10, at Beans in the Belfry, 7pm. (I'm always there at 6:30, if you want an early start.)  I expect to continue these until the Slam on April 26.
We need more participants if the Slam is to happen. Drop by tonight and tell us you might like to give it a shot. Sign up all your friends and surprise them.

Slammin' in the Belfry III, April 26

We'd really like to put about 12 new slam poets on stage this year. The idea is a 2.5-5 minute riff or rant with the winner by audience vote taking home the tip jar. We've had standing room crowds at Beans two years in a row, and the winners each year have been folks who do not consider themselves "poets."
It's that piece that has been running through your head for awhile now;  pro-marriage equality, advocate for foster kids, love story, or what you should have told the ****** when he fired you. You tube has plenty of examples if you don't let the national competitions intimidate you.
We're doing the Monday night drop-in poetry workshop at Beans, and would love to coach and encourage. Every year we feel like the audience includes people who say, "I could do that" or "I know someone who would be great."
If we're going to hold the date and do this, though, we need to hear from anyone who is even remotely interested, and as soon as possible. I hope we can get enough participants, and we'll guess at whether that can happen based on the responses we get over the next week or so.
To find out more, email Slant Light Poetry at poetsrebrunswick@gmail.com.
Thanks