While I was on the road trip that I briefly mentioned in my last post, we managed to get down into Florida for several days. Luckily, we were able to get to the Everglades National Park, Miami Beach, and Key West. I've decided to share some of my poetry from our time down that way. These poems are longer than the two short ones I posted about Southern California, so I won't post them all together. I welcome most compliments and all critiques so don't be shy about speaking your opinion--in fact, I'd greatly appreciate it. If you find anything here to be enjoyable, I'd love it if you'd share it with your friends, either by copy+pasting it, or simply by "liking" it below!
This poem I don't believe I am yet totally satisfied with. There are some areas I would like to improve, but I've decided to shelve my insecurities about it and share it nonetheless.
It is with the greatest of confidences
That I walk down these elevated footpaths,
And peer down into the slow-moving water below.
I think I could erect a similar structure,
Perhaps something that will wrap around my kitchen,
And my bathroom to showcase my flowers,
In the garden to which I tend every summer.
Surely it’s no difficult feat of engineering,
Lining wooden planks four feet high,
But I am sure it was a callous-handed professional,
Long-learned in the art of carpentry,
Who designed and installed these sturdy beams.
A burly man perhaps, who takes all comers,
Makes vigorous love and has never cried.
Assisting him, I’m sure, would be others,
More lumberjack types, hairy-chested
Fans of meat and sport who can handle their liquor,
Which they never put on ice to chill.
I’m not a man like those, I regret.
Just an hour ago I cried, thanks to a song on the radio.
I sobbed a little, like their wives may have done,
Upon learning the nature of the work.
“You’ll be killed!,” one may have protested,
Afraid of boxing up her husband like the liverwurst sandwiches
She made for him today, and always.
No, I’m not cut out for saltwater carpentry,
With those manly professionals,
Waist high in waters which are not yet the Atlantic,
Where crocodiles have crooked smiles, and
Bathe patiently as if to say,
“Come on in, the water’s warm,”
Even though it’s clearly not.