Whether for cartoonists,
or cops,
or comics
or commentators,
or dancers,
or artists,
or poets,
or actors,
or journalists,
or designers,
or satirists,
or writers,
we stand,
free,
and dance,
free,
and paint,
free,
and create,
free,
and write,
free,
and speak,
freely,
free.
Can you hear
the people sing,
and speak,
and draw,
and write,
and dance,
and act,
and be?
Je suis
Charlie.
Je suis Ahmed.
I’m sorry
that this is old.
I’m sorry
that I just wrote this.
I’m sorry
I didn’t have the time.
I’m sorry
that I’m old.
I’m sorry
that it’s new.
I’m sorry
that I’m young.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry
that I’m sorry.
STOP!
Don’t apologize!
Sorry?
For what?
You are standing,
SOLO,
spilling your guts,
speaking for yourself,
sharing your mind,
telling truth.
Don’t give away
your power.
Don’t
be sorry.
I’m not.
We’re not.
Because you’re not
sorry.
You are
not.
Not
at
all
sorry.
This poem was written years ago — I don’t know when — at Speak For Yourself open mic night in Provo, Utah, at Enliten Cafe / Guru’s on Center Street
The napkin poem
of the evening
is caught
in demographic shock,
and so must celebrate
we, who are not celebate,
we who are
older.
At last, I’m seeing
more gray beards,
male AND female,
with listening ears
and minds.
They bring their words
of wisdom,
words of age.
Some may rage,
but mostly we just say
lessons we’ve learned,
words we want to share,
because sharing words
keeps us safe.
Sharing words keeps us
angst-less,
and keeps us living,
and keeps us
alive.
Props to the kid in/
the red sweatshirt — and Dad — who/
left and still returned.
What at last gets her/
up? It’s not peer pressure, for/
I am way too old.
Lady in the blue/
t-shirt: It won’t hurt to read./
It’s what we all need.
When you are wordless,/
write and read a napkin poem./
Welcome to the club!