Poetry Pad

I’m cleaning out my shi’, lightening the load before I move my stuff into storage. (Until late June when I return from Europe, find a new place to live and retrieve it.)

So I’m looking at all my old papers, etc. and I find a little yellow pad from Staples. It has written on the binding “Poetry Pad”. And the pages have poems on them. That I wrote. Sometime late April 1998, when I fell in love the first time.

I remember sitting on my dorm-standard extended-single bed, with the green comforter, back against the wall and the tall window to my left, open to a shaded breeze from the Clark Kerr building 2 courtyard. I think my feet were bare and on the comforter, my knees up supporting my arms to write. I alternated between that and indian-style as I recall. Why all the detail? Because it amazes me how much this artifact takes me back to that experience, that place, that time. It’s tangible, it’s real. It has words and lines crossed out. It has my crappy handwriting. And what I’m about to type is a Platonic fire shadow of what the Poetry Pad tells.

Here’s the first of five:

Treasure : 90 [I don’t know what the 90 meant.]

I’ve found a treasure
I wasn’t looking
Maybe it found me

Beautiful sentience
Slipping away?

My treasure is unique
For what it seeks

My treasure I try to hold
Because its beauty is two-fold

Yet as my treasure sought me
It wonts to be free

Is my treasure sand
Just flowing through my hand?

Making me fortune’s fool
Left to yearn and drool

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