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?
Barnesversation 