"The Poet's Pub"

I passed quite often a building quaint

that stands among the grayed

old city where we all reside

of ones and zeroes made

And one day I stopped in front

and thought to go inside

but my trembling hand could not agree

no matter how hard I tried

When suddenly behind me came

a man of a funny look

with ragged clothes and unkempt hair

and holding an ancient book

He smiled wide and grabbed my arm

And gestured urgently

That I should follow him inside

And then he said to me:

"My friend! Come quick! Do not delay!

And do not fall behind!

Bring nothing but an open heart

and a much more open mind!

This building here with brick and stone

is but an old façade

for what really binds it all as one

are whispers from the Gods!

The Gods who whisper inspiration

from atop their highest peak

into the ears of we the Poets

who listen to what they speak!"

He truly did confound my brain

like nothing else before

but he seemed a joyous, friendly man

So I followed through the door.

And what I saw inside the building

I still can't quite believe

It was like diving into the ocean

to see what lies beneath.

Dozens of men and women laughed

and cried and joked and sang

around the bar while drinking proud

to pleasure and to pain.

The man serving behind the bar

Who owned the building too

Looked right at me and waved his hand

And welcomed me with a brew.

"Hello!" He said, "and welcome to my pub!

My name is Homer. Sit and stay!

We're glad you joined us for a drink

This fine and wondrous day!"

He handed me a pint of ale

And I surveyed the room

The place was dark and intimate

A mix of joy and gloom.

And people all around shared without fear

Whatever was on their mind

A safer place for true expression

No one could hope to find

Some patrons spoke to other patrons

And some sat quietly

And some were speaking right to ghosts

Which at first startled me!

These ghosts were Poe and Frost and Dante

Longfellow, Hughes, and Whitman

Angelou, Yeats, Burns, and Eliot

Pound and Plath and Dickinson!

And countless more would come and go

As often as they pleased

From paintings hanging on the wall

To patrons much appeased

And in the back I saw a door

And wondered where it led

I asked the owner about its purpose

And this is what he said:

"That's where we all go to write

Should Muses bless your mind.

There is only one rule about that room

Only one may go at a time."

I said I'd like to try to write

And so he let me in

And closed the door to give me peace

And let the work begin.

The room was empty, save for a table

With a chair and typewriter beside

And so I sat with hands at the ready

But there was no ink inside

The ribbons read that should I wish

To write my poetry

It must be done with my own blood

For everyone to read

For it is to be vulnerable

To write a poem down

It's pure emotion spilled onto the page;

A soul's purest sound

And so I bled and wrote a verse

And felt my Muse's whisper

And gave myself to the pure emotion

And thanked and gently kissed her

And out from the room I took myself

And then I understood:

Among these giants and friends alike

I'd make my home for good