Lately a trend is emerging,
groups of writers and poets huddle
together in sacrosanct cliques.
An immersion of fraternal bathing,
escaping the scrubbing glare of
critique.
The same names fall
as tin soldiers in line with
double entandre only understood
by them. Their faces betray
the herd instinct of their kind.
You see them at book signings,
art showings, or any grouped
literary display of self gratification,
gulping cheap wine, because it’s free.
Chiropractors love them….profiting.
All those contortionist movements
patting each other, as well as
themselves on poetic posteriors.
Their backs strengthened with soft,
indistinguishable, mole pocked
narcissistic verses.
They are always elated with their
efforts, never a blue note in
the tremor of meaning.
They have forgotten, that is, if
they ever knew, how to reach
into the deepest, darkest despairing corner,
of the human soul to reveal truth.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 