poetry in charleston

by Matt Foley

Gather round, dear friends.
Come lovers, enemies, and mere acquaintances.
Come saints, come sinners.
Come prophets and those out to make a little profit.
Come you ramblers, you gamblers, you soul music samplers.
Come, gather round.
Gather round this fire, this home, this classroom, or coffee shop.
Wherever or whenever or whoever you are, gather round.
Let us hear poetry, like they did in days of old.

Let a guitar be strummed, let a drum be hit,
Let the turn tables spin round and round,
Let the poetry begin.

Let the rich food be tasted, let the lovers draw close,
Let some strange mystic magic fill the air,
Let the poetry begin.

Let words grow tall like skyscrapers, let them glow like sunsets,
Let the seven oceans wash up upon our feet,
Let the poetry begin.

Let similes run wild, like an unsaddled horse upon the plain,
Let our hearts be as free as our wildest dreams,
Let the poetry begin.

Let us hear Walt Whitman and Wordsworth.
Let us hear Pac, Biggie, and Langston Hughes.
Let us move to the spirit of rock, hip hop, and the blues.
Let the poetry begin.

Gather round, dear friends.
Come lovers, enemies, and mere acquaintances.
Come saints, come sinners.
You are welcome here.
Gather round this heart, this soul, this word.
Wherever or whenever or whoever you are, gather round.
Let the poetry begin.

golden

in fifty-one years,
my hands will be
as subtle as time
and as gentle as moonlight
in mid-july.

my fingerprints will
mark moments
without a sense of loss
or any lack of wonder.

in fact,
they will take magic
by the hand
and lead her on a dance
through memories of romance,
of elegantly clutching darkness
during astonishing summers
and slowly unraveling,
then relinquishing,
my ego.

in fifty-one years,
i will sink back into myself
like a child with a new set of eyes
and walk along the streets of brazil,
inching toward perfection,
living in a world
as delicious
and sweet
as honey.