The History of Poetry

Some places have artist colonies. Periwinkle County is an artist jungle. In addition to jewelry makers and painters and sculptors and tractor restorers and novelists and luthiers and potters and musicians and composers and scriviners, there are poets.

Poets consider themselves the kings of the jungle [with a few queens], so their participation in the jungle is known as "the pride of poets," since a bunch of lions is called a "pride."

As good poets should, they eschew commerce. They publish their poems anonyomously by nailing them to the door of The Lutheran Church. [Actually, they tape them up with strips of masking tape that the Lutherans leave there to protect the door, which is glass.]

The following poem was taped to the door last night:

The History of Poetry

Homer was blind
so the whole thing
started off wrong,
or right
if you like lines
writ only from inner eyes.

Then came the bard
who did it for the cash
so he could prance
the boards.
Words of rhyme
to pass the time.

Then a boy named Billy
lastly, who astonished
Paris with picnic lightning.
A blind man, an actor,
a professor, entrusted
with the words of ever.