At The Cracked Pot
three crack pots,
(story pouring
word winders)
read.
Audience fights
coffee makers,
straining ears
to hear,
relaxes with smiles
at trials below amid the coal,
at parking problems,
at teen trouble.
The writers who read have only words
with which to weave a moment
to give a gift, to share
with those gracious ears
filling the chairs.
.
.
Allusion to The Cracked Pot Coffee Emporium in Vernon, which hosted writers Patricia Donahue, Howard Brown, and me this afternoon. A packed house strained their ears, and it was a lovely time!
Shawn L. Bird 
ms shawn having not been to your event im sorry but to feel the emotions of the moment you hit it with a bullseye! slowly as i have developed my skills since i was in a rock band in the 70’s till now poetry has so mch inward feeling to me as the writer but to invite in the reader to my work has been a chore i will deeply encourage you to go onvacation and come back with thrills we can feel again and again. thank you ms shawn for you!
My pleasure. Thank you for stopping by the blog.
I know a few Crack pots. Have yet to hear them read or say anything of significance. The Cracked Pot sounds much better than those I’ve encountered. Poetry Slam?
No, one of the local writers just organized a few of us to speak at this lovely coffee shop. There were 4 originally, but one was sick, so it was just the 3 of us. We spoke for 2 hours, cycling through each of us 3X.
Cool. Sounds like a great idea. Revival of the Literary Salons ala The Algonquin Club.
Perhaps. 🙂
Nice!
Thanks
Ha! Love the conceit: crackpots reading at The Cracked Pot! It sounds like a lovely time.
It was!