I'm not Regis.  Few can lay down a
road to the inner workings of his
soul as easily or beautifully as he.

I'm not So.Plain.  With a twist of a
word, she takes me to brave new
imaginings of what poetry should be.

I'm not Eileen, who knows the heart
of the Creator, who demonstrates
His love for us in the verse she shares.

I'm not Jerry.  He's ridden a wet horse
and has had a few regrets and isn't
afraid to show you where he's been.

I'm not Cindy, who begins and ends
each day with a prayer of gratitude
for blessings she's had in her life.

I'm not Michelle, either one of them:
one paints with words, one is an
encourager despite her own struggles.

I'm not Phyllis, who invites me to set
a spell on the front porch of her verse:
it's a most comfortable place to be.

I'm not Kate, who with just one poem,
leaves me begging for more:  no wasted
word or motion, perfection what I read.

I'm not Charlie.  Or Gene.  Or Cryssa.  Or 
Paul.  Or Rebecca.  Or Jon.  Or Chezza.
Or The Ed Brothers.  Or  Lori.  Or Georg.

Or George.  Or Jill.  Or TRASK.  Or Linda.
Or Jasmin.  Or Trish.  Or Dallas.  Or Lady
J. Talks.  Or John.  Or Karen.  Or Juliet.

Or Fee.  Or Rose.  Or Erin.  Or J. Allen.  
Or La Belle.  Or Don Juan.  Or Axilea.
Or Jude.  Or J'nia.  Or OnePoet Gem.

Or any of the others I've inadvertantly
failed to mention:  I'm just me.  Takes all
kinds to make this word turn on its axis:

and you've touched me deeply and
profoundly with the words you've written:
thank you for showing me what family is.

(c) 2009, Karla Dorman (8/24)