Out of town poet Mark Lipman featured last night. A small but tight open mic. A short but sweet Stone Soup. Here's the poem.
The sky is forever wide enough
for all to fall from grace together,
coming apart in the wind
like the brittle flakes of black burnt bread,
Arms flailing as if to have us
wake up floating in the womb,
swimming in a shoreless blue.
Some of us call this recovery.
there's an end but here its possible
to finish way too soon.
Geese heckle you on the way down,
gossiping like hens and diagnosing
the reason for your fall.
They're too smug in their belief
that their wings keep them immune
until they're brought down
by someone mid-descent.
Below, Whitman's wild children
watch you from the city below.
Never mistaking you for shooting stars,
they know there will be more in the streets
by tomorrow morning.
For tonight, it is the peace
before the swarm of new voices
in the street. The mimes and storytellers
will have newly damned
in the front rows of their audience
down by the town common.
|Apologies to JLA for taking the pic of the list before she signed up at the end.|
Special thanks to Bill Barnum, Deborah Priestly, Lee Varon, Martha Boss, Yvonne, JLA, and James Van Looy.