My first 'poem', as opposed to haiku, in sometime.
“Where are you from?”
It was a question more difficult
then she knew, or intended.
There is nothing left there...
I've been away too long for that.
My hometown has become
a construct of the mind,
a physical place no longer.
It is all real, all still real
the people, the locales,
the events, beads on a string.
My mind has strung them
artfully arranging them:
A creative construct tied
not to geography and time
but to memory . . .
A poet is the one who can make you feel and see a different aspect of existence amid sameness and constant simulacra.
This poem is written by one of them.
(Thanks for the advise by the way)
Good luck
John - are you talking about me?! Suddenly felt like I "owned" this poem and that you had uncovered a truth about my life that I have never before been able to put my finger on! What a joy - and I've only just met you!! Trouble is, my "string of beads" is very loosely tied and ready to come undone at any given moment; and the beads themselves seem to vary from day to day, too! Not too sure that I really have a handle on what my "objective truth" is!! Great write and pleased to make your acquaintance. Thanks, too, for visiting my page. Loved your "Background info" on your home page - really identified. KB
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This poem is written by one of them.
(Thanks for the advise by the way)
Good luck
arranged well
love Tinka
Reindeer