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| Image: Manu Prombol |
Nomad
My
first instinct, when I see that you
are
once more immersed in reading
Lonesome Dove for the tenth time,
is
to call you to me.
Live,
don’t read, I say;
don’t
run away from me into that
long
and winding story.
Then
I remember the years
alone
in my bell jar bedroom,
where
the hard-bound frontier
sagas
were thick oak doors,
their
pages a sheaf of jailer's keys;
that
I could bandage my wounds, slip out
to
the patio,
throw
my great-grandfather's Calvary saddle
over
the adobe wall and race then
toward
the pinon smoke scenting
the
indigo distance—
Apache
campfire, braves drumming home
a prodigal rider.
copyright
Jenne' R. Andrews 2012
12 comments:
I love to read. This is great, Jenne. Especially like-
where the hard-bound frontier
sagas were thick oak doors,
their pages a sheaf of jailer's keys
What a glorious image you have presented,
i hear you on this...i started a poem the other day on the progression from actually living to read, then tv, then video games, then what...
lonesome dove is good though...i like the characters...but i also like the double meaning in the title
So evocative...I love the scent of leather...the jingling of keys...the smoke in my eyes...
Ah the power of ‘immersion’ in a story. Beautifully described.
I really liked that smoke in the indigo distance...
Wonderful response to the image, Jenne. As always, great imagery representing the "hard-bound frontier".
Your poem is alive with emotion, colors, textures, adventure ... I enjoyed it!
As always you have journeys of the heart, mind, body and soul to the edge and beyond
Wonderfully compassionate and human. k.
Wonderfully compassionate and human. k.
Great poem. It really is possible to become completely immeresed in what we read.
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