Here is a poem I wrote four years ago when a good friend was visiting from New York. (Yes, Ann, it is you.) It is about friendship, childhood and longing. I am still looking for a publisher. I’m sure everyone knows that it is almost impossible when your vehicles are poems, short shorts and stories of trauma. Hard sell in this material world. So if you are the praying kind, please pray. If you aren’t, then send up good vibrations.
I know when I hear that melancholy sound,
that want slides in to try and capture it.
Trap it in a mason ball jar and screw the lid on tight.
Let it thrash around that transparent glass who whooing in closed in spaces.
What cells are triggered when the whistle blows, that sing back to it in that same
mournful, wistful is it ever going to be yesterday again moment you have when the
train whistles by as you stand with your friend in a garden near the trestle and the
white azaleas soar so high above your heads? What crashes away from you while you
stand there bathed in silver decrescendos of fragrance and blowing and how come it
never seems to carry you away completely?
Julia W. Burns, MD