Since my mother entered a nursing home last fall I've been writing more cards and letters. Letter writing is a lost art. I wish I could say my short missives are interesting or important, but they're more like the grade-school version of the "how I spent my summer" paper.
I've been pondering writing, postcards and letters and think this might be a good topic for a poem. (My choice is serendipitous, as today's Poem-a-Day from the American Academy of poets is the poem Postcards by E. Ethelbert Miller .)
I hope you'll join me this week in writing about writing. Please share a link to your poem or the poem itself in the comments.
Dear L.A.,
ReplyDeleteI confess I didn’t miss you
till I came to see you again.
The people who walk your streets
seem extraordinary, full
of inexplicable dreams, wearing nose-rings
or strangely shaped shoes
because they like them,
not to make a statement.
Is your sky really bluer?
Is Hollywood really a place?
Do people really feel freer?
I am happy here where I’ve moved,
even without palm trees. And everyone
everyplace goes to the grocery store,
everyone talks on their cell phones.
So why, ordinary as I am
no matter where I am,
do I miss you? Why do I feel
different when I come to see you?
yours truly, Kate
—Kate Coombs, 2014
all rights reserved
Postcard—Return to Sender
ReplyDeleteI’m not enjoying this
Pompeii-after-Vesuvius
travel holiday. The sharks
swimming to starboard
are having a better time
snubbing the chum
we toss from barrels
into the roiling sea.
(Is it me, or is the tariff
on genetically engineered
plesiosaurs prohibitive?)
It thunders concussively
here, and I’ve only eaten
meals I canned myself.
I am thinking of jumping
the port rail. Send word,
as soon as this reaches you,
of how our cyborg au pair
and the children are getting on.
©2014 Steven Withrow, all rights reserved
Steven--Ha! Just don't step on a butterfly!
ReplyDeletePOSTCARD
ReplyDeleteDear Gail,
Hope this e-mail reaches you in good spirits.
I found a postcard you sent me from summer
camp back when were in 5th grade. It was frayed
on the corners with both ee’s in Camp Hiawassee faded away.
The card said, Hey Cece! Camp is nice, mosquitos are not.
Food here is the same as our cafeteria; both contain
mystery grub whose contents will never be solved.
I’ve attempted archery; I missed the entire target every
time, each arrow landed in some wooded area.
Counselors still hi-fived me like I won the lottery.
Reminds me of a certain theme park we visited once.
Anyway, miss ya, see ya in August! Can’t wait to go
shopping with you for new school clothes. xo Gail.
It’s weird how innocent things were back then, before
my parents’ divorce, before your mom passing away.
Now you live across the country, although this
Postcards’ helped me feel like you’re coming home
soon, even though I know otherwise.
Write back when you can. xo Cece.