August Poetry Postcard Fest part the third

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.

Enjoy.

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.
	Schrodinger's Boxes 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.