I just sent my 4th batch of cards out in the mail, so I'm sharing batch number 3 here. I always want to make sure the recipients get to see their poems first.
I'm really enjoying this process. I forget, between one summer and the next, how meditative it is to simply write a poem and then send it out into the world. The poems are those written in one go, first drafts inspired by a picture or memory. In a way, it is like keeping a journal through sent postcards.
So far, I've managed to make all my own postcards. I won't be able to do that from my in law's place, but I'm looking forward to finding interesting postcards from the general story nearby.
|Photo by N. Halin||The Boys Get to Ride in their Father's Race Car
They don't scream like girls
on a roller coaster--like their mother
would, not horror movie shriek
but unconstrained, the primal
push of birth. It makes the men
uncomfortable until they retreat
to the predictable terror
of their fast machines.
|Photo by E. Halin||The dogs welcome us back to the pack.
We answer frantic whimpers and yips
with reassurance, scratch behind ears
and along rumps, promise to unpack bags.
They remain skeptical, shed into our open
suitcases, determined never
to be abandoned again.
||Fontainebleau Hotel, 1969
I barely remember them like this,
my mother in her Jackie O phase, elegant
mini and white pumps, unruly
hair pulled into a tamed chignon. My dad
cool in the summer sun, camel hair
jacket, wide tie, barrel chested
confidence. I do remember finding
pennies on the boardwalk
and the ice cream sodas.
After a full year, four
sealed boxes remain.
I'd like to lie
and say I enjoy
the mystery, how full
of possibilities. Anything
could be in those cartons
as long as I don't open them.
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