Poetry and a guy named Joe

I  use to write poetry.

I like it.

Tight verses, powerful words, with punction to fence it in,

I need to write more poetry.

————————————————————————————————————————————–

Today, I learned that a member of my writing group passed away because of this virus. I only really knew Joe from his writing and the few interactions that I had with him. He loved poetry and he was a romantic. He had not been to group in a while, but according to an e-mail he was still writing poetry till the end. His life feels like poetry.

The Path of Poetry

By: Joe O’Connor

In the beginning
I was delighted
Being Joe
Until
Joe Louis
Joe Stalin
Joe McCarthy
Joe DiMaggio
I had no
Flashing fists
No country
On their knees
No fear and loathing
No extraordinary
Blond on my arm
I was just this
Skinny punk
Joe O’Connor
Set apart
Individual
No longer at one
With the beautiful
Universe
Ah, but I left
A trail of crumbs
When the time comes
I will find my way
Home.

Thanks Joe for the words and the inspiration.

 

 


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