Thank goodness for the people who keep the keepsakes long past their shelf life.  They can be called sentimentalists, bibliophiles or hoarders, but I would rather say they are curators of the common life.  My curator is my best friend from high school, Veronica.  In her collection of memorabilia, she found a publication from our senior English class.  The teacher put two of my poems in this pamphlet, so I can now point to my first publication.

The Turning Point

The beauty of the day overwhelms me.

It has rained; and I, parted from my lover

As a black sheep separated from the flock,

See the newly washed meadow.


The sounds of imitation vanish.

I listen to the undercurrents of pseudo-

Civilization and wonder; which is right?

I see the newly washed meadow.


The smell of a spring traversing my mind

Caresses the sunlight.  I blot out the reality

Of untruths, which creates still another untruth.

I see the newly washed meadow.


The nothingness of money clatters loudly about,

I see man destroy for this just cause;

They scatter and run blind and asleep,

Can you see the newly washed meadow?





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