There is a place where all the poems gather
for their annual meeting, their social affair.
They have a beer, a hug, and rub a shoulder,
another year older, some typo’s are showing,
now who found a partner, and who is still single?
With pain do they watch the old villanelle,
that no one understands these days as she mumbles,
getting more and more tipsy, till she almost tumbles,
then someone takes the old girl to the home,
while here in the café the others mingle.
The haiku, always the first to be silent,
as he is short in words, buys all a new drink.
They talk about rhyme, and how to omit it,
there’s almost a fight, but just in time
a nice Shakespearean sonnet makes them shake hands.
They dance rather rusty, two free verses go crazy
and a tanka throws up, but nobody cares.
After hours, when the others have left,
two disputing sestina’s still linger
and won’t go home till it’s already day.
So much to say in so many words.
Till next year, my friends
and take care of yourselves now!
May the spirit be with you
and the sentences flow.