Well, in what may seem to be the cruelest April Fool's joke of all, it's the beginning of National Poetry Month, and so, the beginning of the 4th Annual challenge to write a new poem every day for the month of April. Yep, I'm at it again, as was recently promised!!
This past year has been a whirlwind of things for me: moving, a wonderful new relationship with the most amazing woman I've ever known, and some new ground personally - both in emotional growth and a sort of spiritual renewal - have put me in a place that I haven't been in quite a while. I'm grateful for all those that read and share in my journey. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Your friendship, understanding, love and fellowship have been a large part of my personal growth, and I dearly hope that you enjoy this installment of my yearly journey.
As always, comments are welcome. I don't ask that you enjoy everything, or that you "get" everything - merely that you read and hopefully get a glimpse of my encounters with the world. Participation is good - feel free to send me anything if you become inspired, and I will post your work alongside my own. I ask that you please keep criticisms on the constructive side. "I hate this" messages just don't do anything but inspire resentment, and who needs that? If you hate it...at least tell me why, or you can keep your opinion to yourself.
Largely, what I put up here is very rarely edited, though I usually do check for spelling. While I believe that editing and re-working poems can be a good thing, it takes away some of the raw energy that comes with simply writing. Sometimes, it's that unpolished feel that really brings out emotion. So that's what you're getting when you read my stuff. Now that you know what you're in for...let's get started, shall we??
Twi-Lite Motel
Three lone pines stand sentry
beside a cracked basin, stark white against the weeds,
rumors only of the Twi-Lite Motel.
Beneath the boughs, a stubborn pile of concrete and rubble,
refuse someone carried over the decaying bridge.
I pass by the rusted sign pole with its faded plastic words,
the only reason I know what used to be here,
and see the past: a low building with loud air conditioners that left
puddles on the sidewalks outside the doors
while high school proms ended here,
and new lives began.
Small things, they seem now, that once were monumental dreams,
lost in a pile of rubble beneath the boughs of three pines,
over a bridge no one can cross again.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
1 comment:
A piece to start things off! You've really developed your poetic imagery over the past few years. The poem definitely uses a lot of great imagery without relying on caricature. Some nice "lite" touches that don't allow the reader to become mired, but push gently along. It's a poem that may even be all the better because it offers a glimpse rather than a lingering.
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