Where a poem ends

The poem started and so many ideas spread out,

Spread out in the room, like platters on a picnic table.

We all gathered about like starving people sharing bread.

The poem started and so many ideas spread out,

We all had questions about how and where it went.

We all had questions about how and where it went

Like people begging directions for a soon to leave bus.

Someone asked should it rhyme, I said I do it all the time.

Then someone asked how it should end, another ‘how would we know?’

I wanted to say the poem ends “when your breathing stops”

But we all agreed and then someone used the word ‘despair’.

Someone used the word ‘despair’ and I then added ‘love’,

Some tapped out rhythm and some others counted all the syllables.

But you. You sitting still and silent, under your breath thought.

The poem started and so many ideas spread out,

Spread out in the room, like platters on a picnic table.

We all gathered about like starving people sharing bread.

The poem started and so many ideas spread out,

We all had questions about how and where it went.

We all had questions about how and where it went

Like people begging directions for a soon to leave bus.

Someone asked should it rhyme, I said I do it all the time.

Then someone asked how it should end, another ‘how would we know?’

I wanted to say the poem ends “when your breathing stops”

But we all agreed and then someone used the word ‘despair’.

Someone used the word ‘despair’ and I then added ‘love’,

Some tapped out rhythm and some others counted all the syllables.

But you. You sitting still and silent, under your breath thought.

You sitting still and silent, under your breath thought to write.

Others talked and you, under your breath, thought to make the night.

Thinking under your breath, like a tiny sleeping giant,

You rose up and you put your idea into action,

Created your own little faction and I gladly joined.

I gladly crossed the floor to join and someone rightly said

Don’t use ‘and,’ and ‘but’, and ‘it’, no need, but I still will. 

Then you shared your poem around the room with your soft voice

So soft it made us hear and with wide eyes we listened.

We listened with wide eyes and you shared, so soft, your poem. 

Each of us listened and you said, “That’s where the poem ends”   

 I said I would write a poem about train timetables

You said nothing, but you smiled like you might like to read it. 

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Grant Fenton – All Rights Reserved