Each month, write a new collection.
_Lost in nature, John? Not so much_Re: your story about Sears. One place I have never gotten lost is inA department store, John. Otherwise I get lostAll the time in urban settings. I dream about being lostIn foreign cities — cathedrals looming, strange storesAnd I’m always being told to retrace my stepsAnd those steps always lead to the loading dockOf a train station - but I Digress. Re: doing something stupid in nature.John, I don’t get lost in nature because I stayOn the trail and if that doesn’t work I walk downThe road like he and I did that time in Orcas and walkBack to the parking lot that way. Look I said hereAre the paddle boats and here is the restroom I usedBefore we got on that trail that ended and there wasThat young girl running down off the trail in a skirtAnd Tevas. We looked at her wonderingly — we haveNever been hike-in-sandals sort of people except thatOne time in France we went out for lunch and there I wasHiking up a mountain in high heels and a dress — I feltStupid until I got to the top and saw 5 other women inPencil skirts and stilettos. I looked at them and then atThe view. I lost myself in it. Re: So there it is at last, John!
Re: Good poem Stephanie! Re: I love the stylistic choices.
FW: FW: FW: This is a great poem, you ought to read it
thanks for letting me talk to you John.... re: sears. :-)
I never get tired of saying how much I love reading you.
I became lost in the Sierra above a valley named Mineral King . I decided to cut across switchbacks and ended up losing the trail for several terrifying hours. The area is home to some of the oldest trees on earth. The giant redwoods have survived centuries of wild fires and heavy snow. A band of colonists even tried to form a utopian society by cutting them down, cutting themselves off from the world and now here I was too cut off from my utopia. My only hope was to retrace my steps go back the way I came and pray I’d find the trail again, which eventually happened after I spotted one of the massive trees with a huge face-like burl staring down at me. I remembered the landmark and it led me to safety. Those colonist, the Kaweans, had to go back too after the government revoked their homestead to save the remarkable treesand in doing so probably saved me
That's fantastic and what a tie in with me filming it there!
Thought you would get a kick out of that John. Love MK been going there for many years. Mosaic published my short story The Trail (I won an award for it) about this very incident!
Lost in This Wild Worldwhat is this placewho are these creatureshere I am in thisstrange room theseodd animals sittingin neat little rowsfacing front handscalm on their littletables could I openmy table and hidein the spacewith my lunchbooks pencilsand papersthe big beast upfront is yammeringinvading my mindif I lay myhead downthey’ll allgo away
That's great Tom!
at least that is my memory of elementary school
I don't ever recall being lost anywhere because wherever I go there I am
I'm usually there too!
you can never go wrong with a good Buckaroo Banzai quote. :)
Because you're perfect, Tommy!
Mingling With Bodie's GhostsThe heat is so thick, it feels like you can chew itBaring down, I can almost reach up and touch the sunThere's no wind, to swirl the dust along the main streetThe weeds cry out, their silent screams for mercyThe tour begins, at the old Shell gas pump at the end of the roadMy eyes wide, I fixate immediately on the rusted bullet holesI'm surrounded by the clicks of cameras, capturing the lost momentThe echos of technology, are strolling down the streets of BodieWe stop at the old saloon, its crusted windows holding back timeThere are dozens of abandoned bottles, at different levels of emptinessI can hear the clinking of the glass, the shuffling of boots against woodThe clack, clack, clack of the faded roulette wheel, and I am lost in itAs I move on to the hotel, giggles and whispers drift down from the balconyLadies of the night, begin to catcall the miners as they pass on the streetA hand covers my eyes, while another ushers me past the harlotsMy face burns hot, not from the sun, but from knowledge of the forbiddenFurther down, I stop and mourn the burned remains of the churchIts bell still ringing, calling the faithful and long departed, to massFaintly I hear singing, the choir lifting its hollow voice to the LordThe words are forgotten, and yet somehow can still be feltI'm diatracted by voices, coming from the general storeLaughter and cussing and dickering, as men buy and sell their goodsI pick up the pace, sensing a tension in the stagnant aira shot rings out, but of course, there is no shooterThe clatter of carriages and clomping of hooves excites meI can smell the stench of horse apples, sweat and black powderThe jingling of coin, the creaking of scales, the striking of matchesI drink in the music, a symphony of wild west life, and I am lost in itAt the end of the road, the tour abruptly endsThe voices of the present, rush back into my earsI stand before the cemetery, with its cockeyed gates and worn headstonesAnd can't help but feel, as though a part of me is buried in those graves
Molly, fantastic. I think this might be your strongest of the month. It really captures the feel of the place and the genre of that kind of poetry!
Thank you!! That trip was hands down my favorite family vacation. I still feel kind of foolish though, having zero experience in writing poetry (before this month) so, I'm not even sure what kind of poem I wrote. I just put my memories down and held my breath :)
Actually, that's kind of what poetry is!
Lost in RhymeI used to be confined by the lines with rhymeAlways taking time to find the right linesTo end in rhymealways definingThe world of wordsalways designingWith compromising and hidingbehind the rhyme when decidingWhat words occur in words constrainingTo try and find the rhyme abstainingTo say what I really want to say in verseWhen I can right without a fight to thirstfor words to flow and figuring proseFlows likewater aroundthe rockin the riverThe difference of the poem the poet considersEvery line as a better timeendeavoring to find unfettered rhymeFree as a birdwith wings to beginFlight into the night stretching againTo motion within the emotion in makingA poem alone to poetry forsakingThe choice to use the rhyme and losewhat is wrongAnd the poem we choose is a song we longFree as a birdFree as a riverFree as the wordswe freely deliver Endeavoring the springto bring forth flowingForever to singBelieving in knowing
Holy crap I am so out of my league. .. that was AWESOME!!!
Like the poem expresses rhyme as a form confined to always be constrained in it's reason, but being you are on the right track free to say what you have to say, keep it up and find the emotion in the poem.
That was awesome Daryl! Fantastic. You really took this concept and ran with it!!
Russian ScrabbleOn our first Christmas together snow covered the sidewalk, the street, the park across the street, the neighbors’ rooftops. We played Scrabble in Russian. I left you to decipher squiggles in the dictionary and went for a walk in the new white world. I crossed the bridge that led from apartments to houses where smoke spiraled up from chimneys; trees were lit in living room windows. The snowplows were still locked in their corrals, the snow too high for cars to pass, the squeak of snow beneath my boots the only sound. My feet grew cold and I found myself in a strange new world, could not retrace my steps in the falling snow. All the warm houses turned their backs on me, the white streets hostile. I don’t know how I found my own third-floor home across this unfamiliar distance. Up two flights of stairs to my tree-level rooms and there you were at the kitchen table, setting Cyrillic tiles to form words more unfamiliar than the white streets that finally led me home. TM
That's wonderful. That metaphor working through it is really brillian.