Poetry Jam

So for the first time in my life I went to a "Poetry Jam" at a coffee house here in Podunk. Huh. Who knew? I enjoyed myself and heard some surprisingly good stuff. I don't know why it should surprise me that poets might live in Podunk. I mean... I do, but I don't claim to be a poet. I read a couple of my poems, and prefaced them with "I'm not a poet." But they were kind to me, and even applauded, a little bit. So I am encouraged to read again. They said short stories were OK, so maybe I'll do one of those. Or maybe a flash piece, cuz short stories are longer than poems. Anyway here are the poems I shared:

Thistle Sock
by Sue Campbell (2007)

Tiny seeds teased from mesh
with practiced pincers.
Precious protein in the false
fecundity of Spring.

Fuel encased in hard shells
both outer
and inner.

What secret life therein
she hides, while gorging
on a banquet
in a sock.

In the darkness, hiding
a family yet to come
along for the ride,

swings gently on the breeze.
A sock in a tree.
A chick in an egg.

Thistle seed.

A baby in a belly,
hungry Spring.


Poetry Anarchy
by Sue Campbell (2007)

What are the rules for poetry?
Who knows about voice, and meter and timing?
Oh, and nevermind rhyming.

That, I could never do.
Sure, it’s pretty simple
to find a rhyme for blue.

But what about orange, or purple?
Does it matter
when words don’t want to patter?
Instead preferring to shuffle, or plod, or slink.

The picture is the thing
that makes poetry sing.
Words are paint, to be slathered,
stippled, babbled and dribbled.

But I, since I’m clueless, and ruleless
am free to sling words with abandon,
seeing what sticks,
and what runs down the page.

Smearing in embarrassment, at being used
and abused by one who knows no rules.