The prompt yesterday from PA was:
"...to write a travel-related poem. It can be human travel, the migration of swallows, the trafficking of drugs, etc. Some sort of movement from point A to point B."
I think I'm hitting the proverbial "poetic wall." Nothing too profound today. All I could think of was a photo my mother has of me at the Four Corners Monument from one of our very few family vacations. And, yes, I really had on red, white, and black plaid pants.
Four Corners
Driving 1200
miles and rising
4800 feet from the
sweltering flatland swamps
of Sportsman’s Paradise to the
crisp and cool Four Corners Monument.
Me, in red and white and black plaid pants, nine –
or ten, hair cut like a boy’s, spread eagle
across Utah, New Mexico, Arizona
and Colorado – amazed at the
thought of being in so
many places
at once.
"...to write a travel-related poem. It can be human travel, the migration of swallows, the trafficking of drugs, etc. Some sort of movement from point A to point B."
I think I'm hitting the proverbial "poetic wall." Nothing too profound today. All I could think of was a photo my mother has of me at the Four Corners Monument from one of our very few family vacations. And, yes, I really had on red, white, and black plaid pants.
Four Corners
Driving 1200
miles and rising
4800 feet from the
sweltering flatland swamps
of Sportsman’s Paradise to the
crisp and cool Four Corners Monument.
Me, in red and white and black plaid pants, nine –
or ten, hair cut like a boy’s, spread eagle
across Utah, New Mexico, Arizona
and Colorado – amazed at the
thought of being in so
many places
at once.
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