Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Poets.
It's the Journey
I've raced a storm into a beautiful sunset in the mountains outside El Paso. Watched the moon glisten on ponds on the edge of Seattle. Seen the beginning and the end of the great Mississippi. Trudged through lingering snow in Winona, Minnesota. Sunrises are gorgeous in Montana at 5 a.m. Watched wild ponies graze in marshland of Virginia. Climbed to the top of a peak called Seneca. Roamed caves in northeastern Pennsylvania. Became one with a crowd in Columbus, Ohio. Chased a dream to Tennessee. Got lost in Kentucky. Found gold in North Carolina. Faced my past in Arkansas. Wore cheese on my head in Wisconsin. Counted the singular trees in North Dakota. I've sped down mountains in Idaho on an off schedule bus. Watched lightning rip the sky in windmill fields in Illinois. Saw a miniature Statue of Liberty in Gary, Indiana. Remember the skyline with the Twin Towers. Did scavenger hunts on Maryland roads. Drove pecan groves on a mild day in New Mexico. Woke up chilly in Pelham, Alabama. Ate catfish on Bourbon Street. Gazed at falling fake snow in Orlando. Stood under palm trees in South Carolina. Bought peaches in Georgia. Had a three hour tour off the coast of Delaware. Roamed corn fields in New Jersey. I've seen every star in clear skies. Seen fog destroy. Experienced the end of a rainbow. Driven straight roads and ones that twist. My eyes have only scratched the surface. Next stop unknown.
By Eslieann Lefler7 years ago in Poets
The Loss
In a chaotic world of empty ideas and parent’s beds lacking the warmth of the other side, it is a dangerous time for the plastic nature of one’s being and belief structure to be trying to navigate this desert of broken ideas and malignant plans. Substance of experience is now, in the myth of eternal progress and the new equating to better, considered stale and lacking nourishment. The elders of this day are cast aside much like last year’s iPhone. Mountains of experience and the overcoming of struggle is now being blown like a handful of sand into the wind, a wind which is at our face; the sands and crystals of generational wisdom is blown behind us, forgotten to those who march blindly toward the ever advancing ‘goal’ of progress. Whereas before the castles built with the fine-sands of a thoroughly-lived life were handed down to tomorrow’s holders of wisdom, to be cared for, built on and inhabited, now they are merely left to fall to the wind that is taking the lessons learned and casting them to the darkness of the already trodden path. The arrow of the world points only one way, forward – always forward. Man’s thread to the still-with-us memories of those who have come before has been severed, diminishing those to, at best the once-were, and at worst the wholly forgotten. We no longer dwell in our parent’s castle.
By Keith Kennedy7 years ago in Poets