Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem


Each is a piece, a small part
of a composite that has come
together in a morning,
the frayed strands of dreams 
knitted into a waking timed now
to a slow tread on a familiar street. 
Then suddenly, careering through 
the center of my thoughts a train 
comes with bells at a crossing 
clanging loudly and wheels grinding 
on rails heading off towards
a distant point in the past. I stop

and see myself, late teens, 
leaving home, riding the interstate 
with dreams spilling out 
of a duffle bag, head in a cloud
of hope. I was Rimbaud on rails, 
high on poetry that I took straight. 
Six months in a one room flat
I ran out of money and a literary career,
hitchhiked back home to sink
into a wintery despair.

A lifetime has passed 
and I have left a poem tied 
to the end of each year as if
marking my way. The words
of most have now weathered away
to a silence. I write as a form
of prayer to that greater silence
and on still mornings, hear
the sound of a train in the far
distance growing quieter.

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