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poetry

The Dinner Party

The problem is, even though
I care, each word of what you say,
your art of crafting sense
of syllables, every one adored
deeply, and I admire, as do we all

I have this thought, a clever play
tip of my tongue, it’s just arrived,
it’s here, right there, a couplet
might disappear, fade away
so interject I must, apologies, without delay

Believe me, when I declare, fully
I understand, more than slightly rude
an interjection, but this speech,
poetic prose, inside my head
these lines of life, may instead

Of articulation, subtle innuendo
abrupt, stature deflation, I’ll be the clown
smiling wide, yet aware inside how sad,
all for a line, what should have been,
a perfect interlude, the look-at-me

An example of my repartee, then, will forever
be forgotten, abandoned badinage,
so I’m sorry, but not too much,
I’ve a reason to be curt, so dear poets…
damn, it’s gone, and no one heard

By cyncoed

Old & Welsh

2 replies on “The Dinner Party”

Excellent. Big smile of recognition in my own self. A unique and intriguing rhythm, along with the oxymoron of the driving / meandering thought makes me feel a throwback to a sort of a combination of Shakespeare and Wilde. The accompanying picture is perfect. Oh, this is I, this is I. Thank you.

Liked by 1 person

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