The Poet

the poet


Words fell from her lips

pooling on the floor, shimmering


Her body almost invisible as she read

moving with rhythm and purpose


Her shadow dancing on the wall melded with peeling paint

punctuating stories only she could tell


There was beauty to its ugliness


Her voice soft, almost a whisper

echoing in a room greedily swallowing all sounds

except for the scraping of our chairs against a cracked tiled floor


We pulled them forward to hear her speak


And when she was done, she sighed and bent her head

spent, drained, delivered


Power, her gift

Our attention, its vehicle


photo: Free Vectors



I wrote this after watching a woman perform at The New World Deli for the 2017 Austin International Poetry Festival. She was very unassuming when she stepped on stage and then came to life as she read. She was amazing!





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