The Dusty Hall

Poets gather for retreat

A man, a woman with their dog

they all come hither 

to this dusty hall

words spoken- propelled 

with no metered meaning 

or measured gait

their poetry, their gift, 

the evening slate,

they stand tall

a roll call of poets with weathered hands

clutching at their battered pages

with no control or structured gages

one- two, they rise

speaking abruptly, but some

  • some quite quietly

speaking/ spoken

words out loud

their poetry/ their sound

beautiful/ broken/ besieged

they read,

words forthright 

yet lost and shadowed 

in a world hanging

up-side-down

round-a-bout

they chant

prideful/ dignified/ reminiscent

of fonder times

an evening spent responding

to an undying rolling tide

creative minds,

speaking words spoke to them

they come together to address

amidst the rafters

that hang above

their heady verses

hoisted high

voices of these poets sung-

All in all, it would seem, this empty room

that looks so dim, comes to life

with a mighty din, not 

the usual silence

that begets

the quiet-ness

of this dusty hall-

this poet’s nest.

©Jay Mora-Shihadeh revised 9/30/21

Photo by Darius Krause from Pexels

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