The old armchair slouches in the corner
like a gunslinger who knows the sherriff ain't around
and no one else goin' dare look him in the face.
Grizzled and worn, he's scarred in places
where the stuffin's been beaten out of him
a time or two.
His skin may sag, but he's firm where it counts.
Never done a day o' honest work,
but his reputation is earned
and he don't have to worry none
about folks questioning his place.
Chris, I have been thinking about starting a poetry club, and I just want to take all of your poems, because I don't write poetry. This is one of my favorites yet!
ReplyDeleteThere used to be a poetry group in my ward, and they used to meet monthly and each person would take turns reading the poem they brought. Each month would be a different theme. Mainly they brought poems that other people wrote, but sometimes they would write poetry themselves. This was before I came to Chapel Hill. I wish they still did this. Maybe you should start one...
Thanks, Metta! I really appreciate your compliments.
ReplyDeleteHaving read your "If I wrote poetry" post, I don't believe for a minute that you don't.
Poetry club in my last ward is what started me writing regularly--I highly recommend it. If any of those people from before are still around you could probably get them to start up again. I hope to get one going here over the summer.