Where Poems Come From

Just an innocent remark
at the end of a casual conversation.
Muses about life’s joys and sorrows.
Or insight after a troubling time.
There’s a poem in that, she says.

A friend talks about sitting in her yard
watching the squirrels prepare for winter.
How this made her laugh, then think
about the passage of time and how we all survive.
There’s a poem in that, she says.

A friend shares impressions,
after reading the Book of Joy.
The underlying tale of tolerance.
A friendship based on longevity and laughter.
There’s a poem in that, she says.

A friend just had her cat put down.
Sorrow after fourteen years of delight.
So hard to do the right thing.
A mixture of sadness and resolution.
There’s a poem in that, she says.

Friends leave the restaurant
and face the clear blue sky
without a cloud in sight or hint of breeze.
But cold as cold can be, we still appreciate.
There’s a poem in that, she says.

Monthly Poetry Breakfast meets.
Nine or ten, but we never have a full house.
Share, read, critique, we know
everything we do informs an image.
And that’s where poems come from.

 

 

 

 

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