I received an invitation
to a veritable literary feast.
All manner of poets in attendance,
from the greatest to the least.

Each brought their best poetry
to be shared at this banquet, Gratitude.
I espied the venerable sage, Rumi,
Eliot and Pound with bohemian attitudes.

Arrayed on a table sumptuously,
gourmet Sestinas, Sonnets, and Free Verse.
I held my meager offering nervously,
asked Ezra where it should go, he was terse.

“Place it on the carving board,” he quipped,
it’s a Turkey, shall we cut it up?”
I heard a guffaw from a smiling Frost,
who was clearly well into his cups.

Surprisingly, he came to my defense.
“That seems a fine poem, my man,” he remarked.
“It belongs center table with all the rest,”
raised his glass and winked with rheumy eyed sparks.

I felt out of place when I approached,
set my poem down like I’d committed a crime.
I read a few other poets surreptitiously,
retreated to a corner, insecure of my rhyme.

I became a veritable wallflower,
hoped to avoid further conversation.
I observed the gathering in awe, demure;
flattered to attend this august convocation.

A wave of quiet washed over the crowd,
Moore, Dickinson, Hughes, and Yeats.
Famous and unknown poets all turned,
Ancient Greeks stood by the Fates.

A voice commanded our attention,
thanked us for our fine contributions.
Reminded us that poetry is for the soul,
its nourishment without substitution.

Encouraged to continue writing poetry,
a gift from the Muses not bestowed all.
Then I noticed others sampling my work.
I was humbled and grateful for the call.

M. Zane McClellan

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