Lying in Poetry

I have treated myself to a few Craft Workshops this week and last.  LitFest in Denver is a big deal, though it is my first time participating.  Maybe this is further proof (to myself) that I am considering myself a writer.  A writer.  When I think of all the jobs and positions I have held in my 40 or so years of working A Writer is the title that sound true.  Perhaps my life experiences were necessary to give me perspective and fodder.  I occasionally struggle to sit and commit.  When that happens I will often turn to my friend Heloise Jones' book The Writer's Block Myth.  I'll read a chapter at random or complete an exercise and voila!  I am refreshed and ready to write. 

Last week's workshops were "The Art of Confession" and "Lying in Poetry".  Do you see a pattern here?  Ha!  I am a confessional writer.  I write true life events from my purview and use my literary license to drive in a few embellishments and humor.  This little ditty came from the latter workshop.  I'd love to sit here and write more, but I am off to another workshop this afternoon.  Enjoy!

Sorry

The truth is I struggle to hear your work

I am only interested in my own stuff

All that sitting under tents, intense

Not for me, you jerk

I prefer to enjoy my own poetry

Read it aloud, alone to myself

Do I really care what you are trying to say

What you meant by a metaphor or the phrase of the day

Alas

The truth is I love to sit outside, under the blazing sun

Straining to hear your every rhyme

Blocking out the sirens, the horns

You are so damn interesting. Every time

I would prefer you to take me to your den

Whisper sweet sonnets into my ear

Tell me I am beautiful and that your poetry

Is only meant for me to hear