An Open (Love) Sonnet to Slam! Poets
It's not your tattoos, or your stories, or your voices,
Or eyes that glint and catch the light like prisms;
It's this strange music without singing, and your choices
To give to us the best of what is written.
You draw deep wells of grief and pour a cup,
Then with crescendoed phrasework lift us high...
Dropping next from seven stories up,
Gaze out on breathless faces, burning eyes -
Extend your hands in such familial way
That I forget my lungs are bleeding words
From a patchwork quilt of wounds your poems have made
Upon my torso - Know that you are heard
And felt and loved and awed and cherished so,
By a sonnetizing chick you barely know.
~CRH, 2012
Note:
Feel free to share my work with others but please make sure to use my name if you do.
Feel free to share my work with others but please make sure to use my name if you do.