Friends,

It’s been a week since I was here. I’ve been traveling part of that time.

I went back to the city to see my new grand baby. What a joy it was to hold her, and watch her sleep. Her name is Grace, and her sister Chloe is still amazed at who this new person is.

I had some time before I came back, and decided to drive down some of the streets that I walked when I was a kid. There are so many poems there. I see the trees planted by us kids when we were in the first years of school, now tall and hanging over the street, and all those houses that once held my friends, now owned by other families with young children. The toys on the sidewalks, just upgrades of the ones we left there.

Isn’t life wonderful? I was looking through some poems to share with you, and thought I’d share my autobiographical poem with you. The whole story, up until I came to the mountains, is there. It might act as a prompt for you.

Not much more to share with you today. I’ll be back in full measure in a few days. Right now I need to walk in mountain air, be thankful for it all, and listen for a poem.

Paths

Corky was the bare foot runner, dust devil catcher,
Red Ryder black bird killer.
Drinking water from the Shawnee well.
Listened to Mama read poems from the Times.

Robert haunted city schools, talked
“black tar, far tar, car tar.”
Fists stopped the teasing. Camel smoking
scribbler of poetry in the night.

Boot camp, bell bottomed wanderer,
Africa, Asia, Kilimanjaro.
Swimmer of Persian seas, walker of desert rims.
All whispered remember, remember in the night.

Bob, Bob -- Mister Bob.
Blue collar fades to white, run the show,
pay the price, watch your step, kiss the kids and
read, read them poetry in the night.

Life swings on a gold watch chain,
time hides the path.
Corky whispers stories over Starbucks Chai,
Bob decides it’s hard to live here,
leaves his notes on the desk.

Robert — writes poetry in the night,
wondering, wondering if it’s too late.

Robert W. Kimsey