by Paul Chapman
Without fail once a week
Armed to the teeth with books of notes
To share with all the trite they wrote
I sit and listen there is no laughter
As they grind out another chapter
Another episode of spite
Spewed out aloud with much delight
They seem to look for each defect
And criticize with great effect
In their writing there is no grace
So I put on my smiling face
They tell me if I spent more time
I could make my poems rhyme
Their work I tell them I adore
But really I can take no more
I cannot face another week
To hear another writer speak
I feel that I’m going down
As in their wordy spiel I drown
It’s all become an utter bore
So I think I’ll go no more
THE FIESTA OF SAN MARCO
It´s before dawn and the brass band tune up
Filling the plaza with a cacophony of discordance
Then with the trumpets blaring they march
Through the narrow streets of the town
Peace descends on the town and all is quite
Then to sound of barking dogs
As if from nowhere the streets are filled
Multitudes of sheep driven forward
To the sound of coughing and farting
To be followed by the gypsies on their horses
The gypsies regaled in their finest clothes
The horses bedecked with ribbons and bells
By evening the bars are full
The wine flows and to the sound of laughter and song
The fiesta of San Marco comes to a close
