Slam Poetry

As a first entry, I thought I might start with a little irony. A poem about slam poets:

I heard the momentary high-pitched gasps

let loose between your words of power.

Yes, I heard them.

I heard you, that screaming little girl,

that five-foot boy,

that cowering, confused soul.

You spoke to move mountains,

imitating your Father's manner of speaking,

and in a manner of speaking,

creating.

What a prodigal son you are,

And you show it.

What a fanciful act you are,

But a poet?

I can see it,

in those melted eyes behind your spectacles,

Perhaps I'm a little too skeptical

of people who pour their hearts out on stage,

who wage war with war

and have a one-night-stand with peace.

Perhaps not.

The melody wanes

after a night of parading,

and as the fight starts fading,

so do you.

What a prodigal son you are,

Not to own it.

I heard the momentary high-pitched gasps

Between your calls for freedom,

And yes, I heard them,

Because I listen. Within every

Rally cry, agony.

Behind every alibi, blasphemy.