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| My photo image showing that you can't quite capture the periwinkle sky I Nice with pixels, |
Poet’s Club
by Mary Payne
Having just read thirty random poems
I feel that I’m not authorized to call myself a poet…
to be in that revered club with Henry VIII
and his “Some Sayeth Youth Ruleth Me”
or with modern poets of dark disquiet,
for I am a sanguine soul
and I had a happy childhood.
There were three dresses in my closet
that my mother had sewn for me
and on Friday my father drove
on the road to town with a list…
including a peach and a pear
for each of us, a five cent sherbet cone, and
a trip to the public library.
No gangs threatened our look-alike dwellings.
No rogue uncle roved at night to
unsettle my sister nor I.
No one even drank!
But I love words too…how they leap
from my head when I least expect it
to explode on the unsuspecting page.
And I am old. Does that count for this club…
senior discount perhaps?
Not many years left
to tell all I want to tell…
about the crab man who runs sideways,
about the infant gecko with his clown-like grin….
eaten by ants on his third day,
How my father tamed the meanest man
or how the Mediterranean sun
can turn the sky a purple/blue
so rich and full-throated
that it can’t be caught
by either film or pixels
but perhaps only in a poem.
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