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Isn’t it funny how the earth rotates
But there she is, standing still

A different city, every thing is strange,
But there, she is free

Oh but is it pretty, is it colder, does it feel like home?

Will you come back? Do you miss the place you’ve always known?
This is how
It’s gonna be, forever
Me struggling
To get over my fears
Walls build so high
Always on defence stride
Too closed off
Never let someone in
Sometimes I myself
Feel foreigner to
My own being
Juhlhaus Dec 2019
We soak our travel-weary feet
Together in the deep end of a sea of clouds;
Take pause on the immortal steps
To inhale Yellow Mountain mist,
Coal dust, incense. Smokeless
Digital fireworks and sky-high butterfly facades
Sprout like corn stalks in autumn haze,
While we navigate this land of a billion characters
And more with only a phrase to go on,
Past the shops, libraries,
And reading rooms packed
With a literature only seen;
Poetic place names set
To a music only heard;
Guided by subtext, courteous,
And often as odd
As we find ourselves, on another side
Of a world only passing through.
Musing on travel in foreign places.
Amanda Sep 2019
You are a co-worker I will truly miss
So I thought and decided to write you this
Working by your side has always been great
Even on days you clocked in a little late
I am glad your acquaintance I got the chance to know
Have a great life no matter where you go
Have a safe trip back to your own country
Now you'll always have these words to remember me
To my Bulgarian co-worker... today is his last day.
Joseph Loggi Oct 2018
Talk like you speak with flowers,
Subtle and fragrant
So that I notice the wilting
Passion that their green stalks
Soon exhibit.
Pseudonym Apr 2018
Lost in thought
perhaps a bit overwrought
eyes devoided of life

A foreigner in such a foreign world
what was then known and accounted for
now remains unfamiliar and gone
courtesy of a cruel world
the she once called home
a polkadotted
napkin
full of problems
tied to a stick
slung across
my shoulder

strutting
stubbornly
from one place
to another

never questioning
why I bother
meandering
all over

a runaway
to sunny beaches
gloomy cities
far off reaches
of far earth

with stars poured
in my eyes
and hard-earned
pennies in
my purse

hoping that
this time will
be different

it couldn't
be worse

?


©2018 Adelaide Heathfield
Ever the escapist. Seeing new places with rose-colored glasses. Believing that everything will be better "over there". But forgetting to deal with my problems before I leave.
father-watching
faraway
triggered sweet by
memory plucked
from twinge of
heart at
husband whiskers
sprinkled in
the sink


father
slow transforming
out of sight
whisker white
a-creep through
long-time
beard of boyish
blondish-brown


sprouting
scraggled out from
ear and nose
and knuckle
round


eyes a-cave
and sunken deep
in shaded-over
cavities


for inward looking
more than
out


with no more
footballs
flung
about


and no more
children yanking
on the waking hours'
daggy trousers


for weeping
over old-time
music secret
in the dark


up with the
birds
down with
the sun


midlife
rush at last
a-hush and
calm in its
surrender
done


bones exposed
of parenthood
held frail a-clung
by gristle grey of
simple habits


coffee thick
and silky
run with
milk


and crispest
crusty bread
torn up
for dipping into
hearty stock


with olives
cheese and
ham on top


a drop
of something
oaky sipped
and languished


a-crawl with
thoughts of
father own
disintegrating


boyhood memories
coddled close
and satiating


with daughter
unbeknownst
father-watching
faraway


© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
A man to whom one has looked up with reverence is especially treasured. His strength, his masculinity, his ability to protect those he loves. And as he ages his loved ones notice a softness creeping in, which only belies the softy they always knew he was inside.

But nevertheless it is poignant to watch—even from afar—as a great man begins to wither. Ever so slightly. But wither. In his body only, not his mind. But wither.
Cassandra Vale Nov 2017
there is a secret fear of mine
that I hope is unfounded
upon the moment you see
my face is white and words
that tumble from my lips
do so with frequent tripping
and ungainly finishes,
oh they do betray that I,
I am not what you expected.
D A W N Jun 2017
A foreigner,
In an unrequited world.
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