Caught From a Writer’s Festival
The muse is a virus that spreads
from poet to poet
wherever two or more get together
to discuss their latest work,
give advice to newbies,
pat each other on the back,
relive 20-year-old poems
written by their long dead mentor,
expose old wounds,
pass on the torch.
I caught it yesterday on Granville Island.
© Catherine Woods 2018
Inappropriate Time for a Message
I write poetry in my head in the shower
and the thoughts will be gone before
I get the words to the page.
The muse comes when she comes.
I must accept that.
© Catherine Woods 2018
PoC
I don’t see your skin
or its colour
(No, of course I do. It’s not mine.)
I only see your glory
your flame of life
your apex
(I see you where I want to be.)
I listen and hear your voice
glistening
and icy
(I’m afraid I won’t attain your heights. What must I do to get your acceptance?)
If I listen to you, will you hear my story?
© Catherine Woods 2018
