I walk the old streets and realize
they tore down the Endicott Theater
to put up a savings bank
in the same space where Poppa and I
saw “Blood and Sand”.
And Fat Tony’s Luncheonette
where we’d stroll for a Mello Roll
or a Charlotte Russe after;
and Poppa is long gone
as well as my nine year old self
never to be seen again.
Which is why I admire those poets
who, whilst in exile
revealed the transience of life
so much better than I,
recalling in deep melancholy
what was, but is no longer seen.
Cranes flying o’re the Forbidden City
the gates of Kiev, Krakow or Jerusalem
a street in Homs or onion domes
they would never see again
walking on a warm Summer’s evening.
.
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Something eternal about this one, Frank. Gets inside the soul.
Best wishes, Pete.
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Hi Pete – I wrote this on one of my better days. Funny, but I don’t think I could write it today, Best from Florida
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This is one of the best. Thank you!
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You’ve captured well the flux of our lives. We have to hold onto what really matters: our relationships with each other and Mother Earth that makes life possible.
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This is absolutely one of the best. May I repost it?
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wfdec – yes you may. Glad you liked, Regards
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Reblogged this on johnsstorybook and commented:
There are many poems written and posted on the blogs we all follow. Some are good and some not so good. Sometimes there comes along one and you say, “I wish I’d written that.”
I wish I’d written this one.
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Achingly beautiful and sad. Also a snapshot of the way your own deep memories and perhaps griefs connect with those of others.
Elouise
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