Web

Web

It glistens in the porch light 

Her masterpiece

Gossamer threads intertwine

A pattern stretching three feet wide

It sparkles with dew

And glimmers as he leaves

We duck

So not to disturb her artwork

We pause for a while

Admiring

Discussing

Enjoying a moment of friendship

I passed by

I passed by

I saw her once,

Outside my door,

Digging through trash

For recyclables to sell

To make ends meet.

But I was stressed,

My work permit woes

Clouding my attention

From what is truly important

I saw him once

On the road to church

Sitting on the rock

On the side of the road

His earthly possessions

Bundled under the cardboard

My heart hurt

But I was on the bus

What could I do?

It’s not like I could have stopped

My excuses mirror the Levite’s and the Priest’s

Is there a Samaritan wondering the streets of Ha Noi?

I will never know.

 

It wasn’t me. 

The Rock

I've never enjoyed reading poetry much, which I would guess is why I don't write it very often. The following piece describes one of my strongest memories from my short time in Jordan, and when I tried to put it down on paper, prose seemed to bog it down. I stopped trying to force it, and this is what I got. Perhaps some of my inspiration has come from reading the blog of a friend's brother-in-law. As I've been reading his work and writing my own, I've been wondering how the editing process for poetry is handled. Do any of you write poetry? If so, do you edit it? What's your process? 

The Rock

Dust surrounds us on this quiet road.

Our bus bumps, bumps, bumps over rocks and mounds on the road.

The desert stretches vast beyond sight on each side of the road.

Clusters of houses appear intermittently on the road.

We’re strangers on this road.

And he notices.

One foot hits the dirt

And another

Shoes left behind

A hand encloses the rock

Sweaty

Pulls back and releases

Arcs

Just in time

Whack!

A hit on side of the mammoth machine

That doesn’t even pause as it continues down the road.