Notes In The Margin

271 unread items.

Someone’s soul, poured out on paper,
wrestled through the editorial process.
Two, five, a dozen rejection letters.
Tears of frustration and weariness,

wondering if this thought was really
worth putting down.

Somehow, published, birthed with fear
and embarrassment and pride and trepidation,
Would anyone care?
Would they read it, connect on that level
where we can’t really put into words
the idea, the feeling,
the ache we want to share,
for a moment, just a moment,
truly understand.

Did he sit for a moment,
tears in the corner of his eyes,
when his poem was
Poem Of The Day?

Did he read it,
read it again,
think of me, the loyal reader,
peering into his inner thoughts
over my morning coffee,
for that brief space
sharing his soul?

But, 271?

Well, that’s a lot, isn’t it?

Click.

Mark all read.

Arrack in Kitulgala
October 12, 2009

As the old saying
doesn’t go, but should,
experience is the best seasoning.

One can’t expect arrack to taste the same
in a quiet, well lit parlor
as it did in the coal-black night,
lit only by a few stars
and the gently glowing cell phones
of a dozen new friends,
with the roar of the unseen river
drowning all but shouted conversation.

Nor will стандарт remain the same
as one gets farther and farther
from Arbatskaya, chill the throat
as it did in the garishly lit,
painfully loud bar, football blaring
from ten different screens,
the men drinking while the women
wept at the Holy Friday service.

Do visitors to the Bluegrass
sit at home, drinking Ale 8 and Kentucky Ale,
shake their heads deprecatingly,
say, sorrowfully, "it just doesn’t taste the same
as it did in Lexington."

Ode to the GPS
July 11, 2009

It's difficult to think of inventions
that don't in the long run,
make life worse, rather than better.

Sure, I suppose they're used
to call down missile strikes,
so it's not all roses and ponies.

Since the invention of the road,
men have been plagued by the terror
of getting lost.
Being lost, itself, isn't so bad,
at least not from the vantage point
of being found again, laughing
about it over a pint of ale.
But while you're there,
it's pretty awful.

Yes, because you have to admit
that you don't know.

Now, with this marvel,
this chunk of metal and plastic,
smaller than a breadbox,
talking to the stars,
I am freed --
liberated to get lost
without having to admit to it.
Freed to wander far from
the so-called-free-way,
which binds you to the path
most travelled.
Free to explore those roads
where one might imagine
real people living,
sitting on their porches,
sipping lemonade while the stars
come out and the crickets
scream into the night.

Drive past corn and soy,
soy and corn,
more corn, more soy,
interspersed by fields where
someone's parents are planted
deep in the earth,
driving slowly enough
to read their names.

For the Weekend Wordsmith, Champagne

Champagne For One
April 24, 2009

Do you remember
standing alone while all around
each welcomed each
to a new year with a kiss.

The champagne bubbling cheerfully
as you left it on the table
and quietly left.

Sunlight
March 14, 2009

A sudden burst of sunlight across the ice.
A dozen skaters radiate
out from their instructor, bright yellow
paper clutched in their frozen fingers.