Last night’s PACKED #poetryparty house, panorama by Joshua Kristal.
thorny fingers flick the flesh
and i have thought
iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou
and you’re there but i cannot touch you
i cannot touch you
“This — For the Moon — Yes?” by Carl Sandburg.
from Slabs of the Sunburnt West, published in 1922.
“The Sound of the Trees” by Robert Frost.
Mountain Interval, 1916.
Lots of guest poets posting this month over at the poets.org Tumblr. I will be one of them in two weeks. Now you know this.
Tomorrow I am...
Poem submission by r0und-here
I sit straight in my chair, taking the red-eye out west.
Above me, my life is packed away in the overheard compartment.
I can’t help but be thankful the rest of my row is asleep.
My insomnia prevents rest,
but the idea of human interaction
sparks a wave of depression.
“Any trash, sir?”
The stewardess stands above me,
equipped with an open plastic bag.
I cringe at her false smile.
and see myself in her eyes,
filled with exhaustion and self-pity.
She privately resents each passenger:
The headsets with housewives attached,
The screeching children who are too young to understand,
The wanderlust teenagers looking to belong.
The sight of adolescence hit her hard,
She too once had dreams to catch.
Dreams that were abandoned
in a distant city long ago.
Now she longs to escape,
to forget her broken desires,
But each sight she sees
brings a painful memory.
I look up at her.
“Why, yes, I do”, I answer, but did not move.
Her eyes flash confusion, but she walks on,
repeating her question to the next passenger.
She is a robot, programmed to assist.
She doesn’t have time for pathetic old men,
who look for meaning in their five dollar wine.
But that pretty little lady,
one day she will be me.
For I was once her.
And now I’m taking the red-eye out west,
to catch my dreams
as bright as the rising sun.
hey guys. i wrote this. it’s already on...better, edited version.