Poetry Night at the Writing Life, 20 August 2023

A possible new thing.

Photo by Jesse Gardner on Unsplash

I’ve heard some advice from fellow writers and others that it can often be a good idea to provide freebies, so to speak, to drum up interest in your writing. I also know you have to provide something of value to those willing to lay their money down for paid subscriptions.

So, tonight, I’m going to do a bit of both.

I’ve discussed my dabbling with poetry before and even showed it a couple of times here on The Writing Life. I’m going to take the advice of some writers on this platform and reuse, perhaps, some of that old material. I promise to post some original stuff later.

I’m posting two poems tonight. One will be a freebie for anyone who wants to read it, and the second will be a paid subscriber exclusive. The first one is the first poem I really tried to write seriously since after I began to revive my interest in writing - about a decade old. The second one is a few years younger than the first and one I’m tempted to use as the name of my first poetry collection. ​

Let’s see what happens, shall we?

Waiting (AKA Alone at the Crossroads)

Photo by Stefano Marinelli on Unsplash

(2010)

Alone at the crossroads, waiting for my ride.

No point in staying any longer, I’ve got another place I have to go.

The road is empty.

I know the schedule, I know when the ride’s here, but it’s not here yet.

I’m still waiting.

All my packing is done – my bags are packed, debts paid, ticket paid – I’ve bought my ticket – but no ride.

I’m waiting alone at the crossroads.

It’s an Iowa crossroads, strictly Iowa thru and thru – the two lane, intersection, a stop sign, tall corn stretching, their stalks and nothing else on the horizon except for a farmhouse or two.

No other people, obviously.

Now I know why the old-time farm wives went a little nuts.

Still waiting.

Alone, not one else, I grab a battered old pulp paperback out of my bag, and picture I’m on Mars, Coursurant, Dune, anywhere but here, waiting.

All the work seems to be done.

I know kind of where I will go, and what I will do.

I know for sure that I have to go, there’s no choice but to go, even, deep down, I want to go – but I’m not.

I’m sitting here, waiting for my ride.

That’s the thing I hate, it’s the waiting. . .

Before the ride.