In 2009 I went to Peru with my best friend, Griffin. There was lots of time in Peru. On the days we were in villages along the Amazon we went to bed with the sun. Plenty of time to sit around and read Whitman by the lamp in your tent shielded from mosquitos. Lots of time for thinking in the morning on the dirt floor when the roosters wake you up. Tons of time on the canoe with a potato and boiled egg breakfast dreaming of banana pudding and holidays with family. Time for wondering about wandering forward in life.
In that vacuum of time and far away space - I wrote these poems in my journal. And I still cherish them as treasures. They hold fragments of that time; glimpses into my mind during those precious wanderings and wonderings in Peru.
Here they are, along with some of my favorite Peru pictures I took:
How Is It That Sometimes?
How is it
a whole speech is quite worthless
but one word can mean the lot?
How is it
years of embracing are forgotten
but one gentle touch
I give authors respect by soiling
in relentless use, their books.
I award my fedora and Oxford suede shoes
when they stink as bad as they look.
My Author wrote me well and yet I rebel;
I crave clean, tidy, unstained -
when what honors Him most is brown sweat on my brow and
at The End, see this body worn lame.
To whom shall I be
to this likening of a bride to be?
I am nothing.
Perhaps a blind hunter
dressed in orange as my only sign;
but a parade of orange it is
to this bride to be.
“What an orange is he!” says she.