Today's prompt: "I want you to write a poem of regret. Get creative with this one, but there should be some form of regret either expressed or hinted at (even if ever so slightly). You do NOT have to use the word "regret" in the poem, though it's fine if you do." Poetic Asides
I think I read too much when I was a kid, about climbing and flying and exploring. Oh, and I also played too much baseball . . . Not that you can tell.
Hanging Out In The On-Deck Circle
The peak of Mount Everest
remains bare of my flag,
sherpas backs unburdened
by my burdens as I choose
to go mountaineering in other
places. Neil Armstrong didn't
have to share moon dust
with my sneaker-clad footprints
or endure my back seat Apollo
11 driving. - Are we there yet?
Somehow, Lewis and Clark
discovered the Northwest Passage
without me tagging along
to tell them where to set up camp
for the night, or swapping baseball
cards with the Yankton Sioux.
And although Amelia never
asked for my advice, I still
wouldn't have told her not to go.
The New York Yankees could
have used my pitching skills
most years, but managed
the Boston Massacre quite nicely,
without once calling me down
to the Bronx Zoo. If I had it all
to do over again, I would
have majored in ornithology,
and spent my days wandering
through some vast Canadian
wilderness making bird sounds,
without a cell phone or map.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment