Glen Martin Fitch Poems

Some poets lead romantic lives,
some not.
Some thrive by talent, friends,
or luck, or taste.
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Just write.
No form, no rhyme.
Be free.
Try strange associations.
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Hello, excuse me.
Hate to interrupt you
when your teeming thoughts
are coming fast.
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Once poets chanted
epic tales,
dark rites.
A country's pride,
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You ever notice
when folks ask 'How do? '
you start
and they can't wait
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Weed through the slang
of pompous modern man,
past every status phrase
coined for new roles,
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It's like in summer,
when your throat is dry
your lips draw tight,
your lungs refuse the air,
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A sentence should be hard to the tooth,
never brittle,
never mushy,
but soft to the tongue.
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It’s not the food
that makes me dread your show.
It’s “sammies, ’
“stoups” and “choups”
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I have his pliers,  
hack saw,  
ruler, sledge,
the tools my father 
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