Child Is by Caroline Skanne
Always missed,
Travelling back
To lost time
Barefoot,
And vulnerable
January - February 2009 | Journeys
Always missed,
Travelling back
To lost time
Barefoot,
And vulnerable
So, you think that soulful Jazz has ended
The trees sway like dancers, casting eerie shadows like monstrous figures calling me to join them.
Private journey
Internal path
Gateway to knowledge
Spiritual road
I grab the phone just as it buzzes to hear my daughter crying hysterically.
Monthly I cycle, crave food, indulge a feeding frenzy,
still feel starved. Hormones hang heavy upside down
like stalactites.
There’s no way to describe how I’m feeling now,
Just that my heart is broken.
There was a storm during my first flight, so strong it actually made me sick, which is hard to do. I was almost home now, but as I boarded the plane for the second time, my stomach felt like it was floating.
you drive the wrong way
down a one way street
travel highways
with no mile markers
Switchbacks
force us to look back
at where we have been
It’s funny,
the older I get
the more I check the time.
I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M MOVING AWAY FROM HOME! Why must I be captivated by a tattoo covered man who thinks the only thing decent about the Midwest is the St. Louis Cardinals?
The lost wail of a whistle
eases over wild poppies,
rank grass between tracks.
Long car rides quiet the internal chatter. The unopened e-mails and unreturned phone messages slip from memory at the interstate on-ramp. These long trips often put you in the car at atypical times, when NPR is playing Wagner operas, prompting you to surf the stations and find that you still know the words to a song you haven’t heard in ten years.
Along the way I fell in love
and although you’re not here
our journey’s been so special
and in my heart you’re near.
Summer of ’63 I took the red eye
out of O’Hare, arrived back at LAX
without a clue that city buses didn’t
connect that time of night.
They are in heaven
Way past the sky
Laughing and playing
Under God’s watchful eye
Every Monday morning the man in the blue hat walks past our window. I often wonder whether his hat is glued to his head, as it never blows off, even in the dire weather that we must put up with.
I looked at the photograph again. It was yellowing round the edges and the image was less sharp than it used to be.
You must have seen the bowl
of the sky underwater
when you dove right in
You need a driving license to ride my moods,
And ensure to attach an air bag just in case
I decided to crash straight into you.