A far-flung Island

A young child will look at a map and ask,

                “Daddy, where is this place?”

                and will point to the location

                and get a response; “why, that’s the United Kingdom”

But he doesn’t look at the other places, the dots,

                the dots and the mere specks that nobody cares about.

The dots that represent those small islands

with their small populations, claimed by the giants.

Their beautiful waters. Their rugged landscapes.

                That nobody knows or cares about, outside of these islands.

They may be in the Atlantic. In the Indian Ocean. The South Pacific.

Isolated, and alone. A dot. A speck. A tiny dot.

Represented, without a good representation; they would revolt

                                if anyone outside knew who they were. Before laughing it off.

Did anyone ask how they felt about their places on the map(s), the world?

                                                No. Too much effort for little specks in the grand scheme of things.

               

So for now, these lonely islands will keep to themselves.

                            On the vast ocean.

                                                Alone. Adrift.

The writer

The writer sat down at his desk, ready.

Ready to write. Ready to create. Ready to inspire.

Ready to paint, to weave.

But first, what to do? How did he want to get started?

Would the worlds he was to dream up be vibrant and full of color?

Would the created lands be mythical and legendary?

Would they have dark secrets at their cores?

He would decide this. For he was a god. A god with magical powers.

A god of worlds yet imagined, woven, dreamt of.

                He was the person that could bring them to life. Create, if you will.

The characters, places, the events.

The legacies. The basis for one’s imagination.

                Oh the things he could do!

Siberia

Cold. Bleak. Dark. Isolated. Alone.

These are the images that I conjure up, when I hear those words.

Or actually, a single world. A single, lonely word.

                                Siberia.

I think, who would want to live there, so far from the rest?

It’s just a barren land-do you really want to live and die there?

The rest of the populace lives all together, so close.

                But you don’t. Away from them.

You live in an unfriendly place. No warmth.

For what? To prove that you’re taming that,

that vast and wild beast?

Well technically, there are people there.

People in cities. Splattered around like a toddler’s paintings.

No set pattern, basic, and vast.

But that’s why I’m so fascinated with you,

                Because,

                                You’re the rare thing, a place that isn’t mentioned yet you manage

Manage. That’s the word.

                Manage to be ugly yet beautiful.

                                                                                Which is why I want to be there.

People watching on an airplane

As I buckle down into my seat, I can’t help but wonder:

                where have my fellow passengers been to

                                and what have they seen?

                Or for that matter, what are their stories?

The man two rows diagonally behind me,

Was this a vacation or a business trip?

                Did he see the same things that I did? Or other ones?

                Things that may make others jealous, of the stories behind the sights

That he might have seen

The old man, the wizened veteran of travel

who has probably forgotten more than I’ve ever seen abroad

                Of places that have changed names several times before

                                akin to spies changing identities

                                and other things that I cannot fathom; I can only wonder.

The young kids whom I hope, just hope,

                That this trip inspires many more to come in the following years

                And whom I may run into on the path of my very own travels.

That baby, who I hope doesn’t try to register a new record

                For loudest recorded noise on a plane by a 6 month old;

                                And for whom, I hope, my blissful rock music drowns out.

My own mom, who I wonder, how does she view these trips?

Did she feel the excitement of a new destination, like I did?

                Felt it, soaked it in. How vividly the colors were

                the colors, of the brand new sights.

To that young new couple, and the joy bringing their love,

to other places. Places that will have experienced their budding bliss.

                And increase that incredible bliss even further.

But for now, I’m buckled in.

                Buckled into a harness, a harness that caresses me, brings me home.

                                               

                                To where I enjoy the most.

A poem for Erin

There once was a girl from Greenwich,

Who loved life to the fullest

And who loved to imagine of places in the world.

                The splendid, wonderful, far flung places

                                                                She wanted to learn more.

To see these places, to feel them. Feel their liveliness.

Their jaunty feel to them. The history behind them.

                                She wanted to experience it.

From the city in Connecticut to

                Italy, where the ancestors hailed from,

                The green fields of Italy, oh yes, the green of Italy

                The green of life, pure and lively; oh how beautiful that is.

The liveliness of what that country has to offer, and it’s people

                oh the people

                                the people that make life wonderful.

But for now, she was focused on going from lovely green to unique orange.

                                The orange of the outback of Australia.