It is a numbered milestone
through days of skirting
dozens of poems, getting under writers skins
seeking pearls of inspiration to polish
and grow in my own writing. Diving deep
was not easy, especially when the weight of the poem
soaked in sadness, soulful, the words rolling off
so many wonderful writers, putting their souls down
in verses and visuals deeply human, some disturbing
I loved them all.
The delightful ones were misty mornings and magic
encounters with snow and icicles
driven by sheer sharp focus in the beauty
it abounds in. How satisfying it was
to sit back and wander with in the bright glow
imagery that each poet crafted from a single sight
Amazing and enriching.
The sparks of humour that flew from some
kept the heat of the day and the chill of the night
under wraps, just me giggling and happy
at the strange and exotic way some things were said.
Then again the rumbles of war and hate
sounded through some verses. drums cussing the air
bugles blowing, feet stomping rhymes and rhythms
that tore the battlegrounds with blood and bone
and bayonets ripping gut and muscle
from enemy lines. Bravo to our heroes
who wrote with such marching orders.
They were soldiers in command.
So many young mothers spoke of haunted
youth and broken dreams that wrenched their
love and hollow echoes in their bruised bodies.
That was sad. I could hold out a hand to them all.
The medals were theirs to clasp and cuddle
even as they fought their way to being whole again.
In sections where god and angels dwelt in
heavenly abode was pleasant. Like a safe house, I felt at home
in these poems, sheltered and warm, sharing what little belief
lay in me to be part of a choir of poets singing
in harmonious song.
I watched as contests came and closed. There were so many.
Each one had a purpose, some were exotic. others
mundane, some silly, some inspiring, some space fillers.
a few testing their wings, some falling by the wayside,
some rising to the majestic occasion with rigid rules
but all defining a purpose.
I wondered why some contests even existed
seeking absolute control over topics and braving
icy, polar winds of meaninglessness.
The newcomers were always a treat. I read through dozens
of newcomers work, searching for the one poem that
would sparkle in a dump of words. The one that would magically rise
and smoulder in its pain and agony or lilt with seduction
and sensuality. There were many new poets testing the waters
unknowing of the talent they possessed, waiting for someone to read
and comment on their masterpieces.
Finally, I wrote my hundredth poem summing
up all of the little bits and pieces that make
this a worthwhile past-time.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
This is my 100th poem on this site. Its been fun writing and commenting and reading and enjoying the works of so many poets. Perhaps no other site has this many poets putting their work on display.
Its been a pleasure being here.
Two hundredth poem - here I come!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Comments about this poem (100 by Marshall Gass )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- Birth is a, gajanan mishra
- A CROWN THURST UPON..., M.D Dinesh Nair
- Memory is basis of everything., Rm.Shanmugam Chettiar.
- Just Like A Red Rose Appeared She The Fo.., Bijay Kant Dubey
- Birth is not in its hand., Rm.Shanmugam Chettiar.
- After Meeting A Foreigner Girl, Bijay Kant Dubey
- At Last A Rose, Electric Lady
- Needs, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- The Buffaloman Too A Chief Minister In B.., Bijay Kant Dubey
- Purpose, RoseAnn V. Shawiak