we are all strangers to ourselves...trying to find us
reaching for the sky...searching for answers not there
never knowing who we are or who we want to be
and if we do find ourselves...what will we be
strangers in the skies...who are we
we were a lost generation seeking nonexistent answers
dreaming of the impossible...not satisfied with the possible
they call us the baby boomers...end products of a war
we expanded the search our parents began much earlier
strangers in the skies...who are we
rebellion was our middle name...rebels with a cause
nonconformity our way of life...we would show them all
but who were we rebelling against...ourselves perhaps
what were we not conforming to...what we were suppose to be
strangers in the skies...who are we
but look around...what do you see...all of the next generations in a line
arent they also rebelling against...what...you or them
and being nonconformist as we were...but different...their own style
they are them and we were us...different times...same growing pains
strangers in the skies...who are we
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
This book represents a thirty-day period of my poetry journal. Each poem addresses
the dominant thoughts occupying my mind during the early morning hours of a given
day.
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Anna
Hugs,
Marcia