Poetry Reading

We were free to read our poetry.

A reading,
poetry one day;
nine people
arranged together
all pent up
with their creations.
Some nature
poems began it all,
but then the
reads got personal.
Man alone
or wife then widowed,
broken hearts
and love from the heart.
Verses voiced
in tones with pity
or in tones
with sadness present.
I sat tense
on a metal chair
with my poems
tightly in my hand,
eyes darting
to the next person
striding up
to the brown lectern.
He started,
a heartfelt tribute;
at the end
a round of applause.
Afterward,
‘twas my turn to read
and I did
with anxiety,
my palms moist.
I finished
then returned to sit,
more relaxed.
The poems continued.
Nothing rhymed.

40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
10-13-17