Photography © Glenn Bowie
I suppose you’re a poet whether the work’s good or
That one doesn’t get paid for what’s given, obsessed
That what comes out, has been stored collectively by
And you are only the body they’ve shifted it to:
From the Greek word poiein, to make. (And not, to
Emily Dickinson made, and made, on discarded
A more humble term, sayer, was once used. That’s a better
My Grandfather named Sayer sang to us every
Nut trees provide a bumper crop. One squirrel may bury and
I stuff poems in journals, hard drives, bits of paper, winter
We do not know, what, if anything will make it to
No one judges a tree, questions if it’s good, we know
Katie Kemple writes poetry, works freelance radio gigs, and helps raise two humans, an elder pug, a carnival goldfish, and a clew of compost worms. She’s married to the love of her life. Her poetry appears in various places on the internet.
Glenn Bowie is a published poet, lyricist and photographer from the Boston area. He also owns and operates an elevator company that supplies custom-built elevators for clients from New England to Hollywood. Author of two poetry and photograph collections (Under the Weight of Whispers and Into the Thorns and Honey) on Big Table Publishing, he donates all profits from his books to various charities for the homeless and local animal shelters.