My Initial Response to the Winter Poetry Slam

The judges are chosen
By random decision.
And the host reigns
In his supreme jurisdiction.
This is how the Poetry Slam runs.

Some of them rhyme,
Most of them don’t,
Many are quirky.
Peace! Peace! they promote.
A few stand out – gems.

One girls walks on stage,
Jeans skin-tight and boots.
"This girl dresses in sizes too small",
Says I. Who am I? I;
The self-proclaimed jury.

But her voice is strong,
And her words more so.
My ears perk to listen,
My mouth opens without words.
And my shame grows.

It is clear she is what Keats
Calls a “poet”,
What Coleridge would
call “a poet”.
And I belittle her no-more.

Criticism turns to applause
As goose-bumps light up my skin:
Proof of the timeless lesson
That I’ve learned within.
Strangely,

The finger that pointed is now
The voice that cheers loudest.
She might think I was a fan all along,
But she would then be the judge –
To assume me as a good person,
Would make us both bias judges.