The Poetry Hoard


I climb into that hoard I call my room.

A crunch of poems lie beneath my feet

where long forgotten love songs likely swoon.

   Tacked to my walls, poetic posters greet.

Hand-written journals stacked in corner seat.

Beneath my bed the dusty melange grows.

How many ardent poems hide their heat;

could stir, cajole?   I’m sure I’ll never know.

Bold critics scream against my line. I’ve found

the world has left a large guffaw behind.

Brave digits swirl as poets free, unwind

 while I convulse and center on my rhyme.

So deeply buried in my chifforobe

live all my opening lines , an anaerobe.

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Frank Solanki

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