The Live Poets Club had its final meeting. With the start of the school year on the horizon for several of us, we no longer had the time to meet twice a week. And our gentle, quiet leader admitted that he was ready to let go of the responsibility. It had taken lots of mental and emotional energy. On the last day feelings were warm and no one could quite explain how the magical combination of writing, listening, and commenting had brought about the growth in all of us that it did. With gratitude to my fellow poets, I've selected to post, the two poems that I am most pleased with. Comfort It was probably broken from the beginning. Desperately childless and almost forty, I met him at our high school reunion. Intoxicated on inflated hopes of finding one's true love, I agree to leave my job and drive Across country, back to a place I had once known. Arguments stowed away as we left the city, And came out of hiding, tormenting us At every place we tried to rest. When we reached the coast, a truce Was called and we behaved for his family And tried to build domestic tranquility. Jobless, I walked canyons alone, And cried unending tears into the phone, While our bed slowly froze. A two-hour drive away, my sister Gave birth to her first child. Our mother Flew to her side, but declined to stay by mine. One morning, "I would never marry you!" Roared into the void between us and whatever Had thinly wrapped us, ripped into shreds forever. He drove off and I sat in a cold kitchen, staring At an uncertain future. In the next moment, the phone Brought me the warm, long-distance voice of an old friend. "I'm coming. Would love to see you. What are Your plans?" she asked with unknowing irony. Through grief-filled sobs, I revealed the destroyed relationship. Her immediate question: "Do you feel safe?" became A woolen poncho tossed lovingly over my shoulders. And For the first time in a year, I did. Words as Lens
The poet is like a photographer, Who captures a moment: Backlit grasses, geese in flight, Ruins of war, hollow black-and-white eyes, Hands about to touch, old man on a park bench. The poet takes existence and suspends it, Focusing our attention on that which was Unseen.
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Becca Kesler
I teach kindergarten at an independent school in Hawaii. The joy of young, curious learners delights me. I'm passionate about my practice, always striving to meet the needs of the children and their families. Archives
January 2018
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