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I lift my pen at the scent of the coming rain.
The wind rises, and I sense the pain gathering strength
and after a beat or two, the drizzle scouts my face
- but I smile.

I have my compass, the North Star
and the maps I made before.
I can still climb this new stanza
navigate past the memorials,
through to the meadows beyond
and I can rest there, refill my pen with the rain
and write again.
re-write of Navigating the hills, flexing my writing muscles ahead of a poets retreat
Chris Saitta May 17
I failed to love round, but fallen flat,
My head slumps down, over an ancient map,
My eyes roll back, over the mappa mundi verge,
Where waterfalls purl, and the sea serpent-sleep lies curled.
Mappa mundi are surviving Medieval maps of the world that often depicted sea monsters and dragons.  In spite of a common belief, most educated Medieval classes did not think the earth was flat (known as the Flat Earth myth) nor did most scholars from the classic Greek period on.  Similarly, no old world map contains the exact phrase “Here Be Dragons” to connote uncharted territories, though dragons and sea monsters often allegorically depicted the same.
Starting from the Euphrates
wayfinding a trail toward Babylonia
to divert her waters

mapping her ancient towers
her eyes
her desires
her pudendum

egressing out of the bitter river
surrounding her temple

until enlightenment
glisters betwixt the frangible pages of her
Dialogue of Pessimism:
~
"Who is so tall as to ascend to heaven?
Who is so broad as to encompass the entire world?"

~
Inspired by Jamadhi Verse's poem 'Minor Melancholy' and the music she provided a link to:

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4289300/minor-melancholy/
Carlo C Gomez Mar 11
~
This level crossing--

stick,
sand,
and broken glass,

from naming to numbering,
names tend to define,
numbers are neutral,

they count the roads, follow their shadowside--

flow,
force,
and absorb,

dictated by a candle,
I feel nearer to the surface of us,

motion made of visible memories, arrested in space,

mere unorganized explosions of random energy,
and therefore meaningless--

to fall in love with our progress,
and to be outgrown by it.

~
Nylee Feb 23
No one catch up to me
I am far too gone

There is no map to place I go
There are no lingering footsteps to where I am

You'd miss me
for a day or two
but then, time fixes it
and I'd be a distant memory
rig Jan 5
x
illegible,
this map - to be
or not to be:
that is the quest.
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2020
just before never...

my last performance,
the words came original
and easy, unlike all its
predecessors; someone
drew me a map of my
life and times, cities,
countries, and roads
well travelled and a few,
not too. Mountains, each with
a woman’s name, who carried
care, until she couldn’t, didn’t, and
time’s weathering returned us
individually into hillocks, and then
rain eroded us back into old soil.

the broad highways and back roads,
always snaking away, fork-forcing
directional choices, usually taking the
wrong way, the easy and safe one,
and how I have come to hate those
words: easy and safe, for they
are the pill combo that leaves you
for dead, dulling the questioning
one inquires of oneself, late, reluctantly.

But there is always the unexpected.

Today I saw a sunset on the Hudson
River with a humpback whale blowing,
running beside a river ferry, plowing the
waters back and forth tween two states.

Lived by this river for s e v e n t y years,
and have seen the whales in many places,
but here, in my city, in the river of my youth,
never.

and I got the sign, message received, there
are still sights and poems to behold, arms to
embrace, youngers to guide if they’ll permit it.

so this title, these two,
just before,
this day, poem, came to remind me, the
days map remains unfinished, there are lands
and voyages and poems still awaiting drawing,
and it is tomorrow, and just before tomorrow, that
recording insistent demands, and a map is just a
moment in time, until just before...never



5:28 AM Thu Dec 10
2020 (a year deserving
of its own line and ending)

Manhattan, between two rivers.
https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EovXVHyXcAAHXax?format=jpg&name=large
Steve Page Sep 2020
I lift my pen from the page
and smell the coming rain
I hear the rising wind
and sense gathering pain

and as the scouting drizzle coats my face
I smile, because I have my compass
I have a North Star and the maps I made
when I came this way before

I know I can navigate these hills
and I can form a new stanza
to take me through to the meadows
that wait for me there
I navigate by poetry
Steve Page Sep 2020
The map is not the territory, but oh, how we need the map and a trusted map maker.  And who better, but the maker of all.
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