Dixie, the lady I did my first poetry book with, who is a painter par excellence, suggested one day a year or so ago, that we gather for a day at a place in the outskirts of El Cajon, called Summer’s Past Farms. She would paint, I would read poetry, and someone would play the guitar. She is the resident artist there and has been for 20 years. Well, we finally did it! Saturday, she painted and I read poetry, no guitar though. It was a little overcast, but we had fun and I enjoyed reading my poetry and answering questions from those gathered there. It reminded me of a poetry evening when my husband and I lived in Northern California, in a little town called Lewiston. One night we gathered at a restaurant called the Mustard Seed…
The Poetry Reading
A candle glows as kindred spirits
Seek respite from the mundane.
An old guitar strums softly
And a young man sings of pain.
United in a space of time,
To share a common pleasure,
The words rain down upon our souls
In metered and Iambic measure.
One poet doth protest too much,
To paraphrase “The Bard,”
Yet pain and life and living
Are more palatable shared.
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