Tea With The Poets



Last night, while I lay sleeping,
I had me quite a wondrous dream.
I was having tea, with the poets,
-The ones I hold, in highest esteem.

Whitman, nibbling a lady finger, asked,
'Do you too, Madam, partake of the write?
I quietly answered, 'I'd like to think so, Sir.
But nothing that would over excite.'

Poe looked up, from behind his China cup,
'What's this? Don't sell yourself so short!
Be confident in your abilities, my Dear.'
Was his stern, but soft-spoken retort.

Longfellow then chimmed on in,
'We've been reading some of your work.
My Lady, you have, an ink-flow talent.'
He said, with a kind and gentle smirk.


Thoreau, who sat there, stoic, spoke,

'I too feel, you are blessed with favor.

So look not behind, but off far ahead,

And let never your, passions waiver.'


I sat there quite amazed at all this,
And it must have shown up in my eyes.
For Emily, sweet Emily, spoke up then,
'Why do you look so taken aback, so surprised?'

'We all were once, you see, just like you-
Lacking needed confidence, in ourselves.
But we kept right on, trying and penning,
Now our volumes and books, line many shelves.'

Everyone nodded, in their agreement.
Then Whitman gently took my hand.
'Have faith, my dear, in this gift you have,
And your prospects are certain to expand.'

I sat there with watery, grateful eyes,
For their words, as always, touched me so.
They finished their tea and promptly stood.
It was time for them to go.

I thanked them all for their wisened wisdom,
And for their works, I've so always enjoyed.
They filled in me, the empty place of my confidence,
That had always been missing-always devoid.

They faded away then, there in a mist-
These great poets, so very supreme.
Then I awoke, to six, empty tea cups.
Had it really all been just...a dream?

View cathycavalcante's Full Portfolio