Saturday, January 9, 2016

Gone

Sometimes I remember little things that have been lost.
The notebook of poetry and observations
and other bits I wrote on that trip.

A bundle of love letters written  
by a nineteen year old who detailed his days 
and gently phrased his affection.

A bracelet bought from a street stall in Boston.

A small stuffed panda with ripped seams at the armpits.

These are just material things.  They say the best things are memories.
But memories are not fact, memories are oft inaccurate.
Those things were constants, fixed points
of the experiences and faces that presented those gifts.

Sunday, January 3, 2016

Lines Composed On the Drive Home

Old men with their stump teeth
eating stinky cheeses
and singing beer soaked songs
of a sadder, more glorious day.