am i pained
by writing poems
in a shabby louisiana bar
a bistro of sorts, at 1 a.m.
on any given morning
i ask myself
"where, then, does the
atchafalaya lie,
and bayou pierre end,
with the rio grande river
in mind?"
how far, then
did sartre peer
into the swampy distance;
and do child like children
ever fall away?
given the absence of a canoe,
barge, house or john boat,
with a good dog, insect repellent,
a small caliber weapon
a low powered outboard
(in order to fight the not too often
strong currents)
pencils paper
and a pocket sized spotting device
i am still drawn to the notion
of returning to new mexico
by boat.....
(c) pjreed 2012
notes:
-photo d. nelson (self/dave's canoe/wallace lake may 2012)
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at ASH, and anonymous comments are fine. In any case, I am more than willing to value anybody's feelings about my writing, and I assure you that I will not intentionally exploit or otherwise abuse your right to express yourself as you deem fit. This topic is far, far too important for anything less. Thank you, whoever you are. Peace and Frogs.