I'm admittedly biased, but I really enjoy my son's poetry, of which he's written very little in recent years. When I asked him why not, he told me that it's hard to write good poetry when you're happy. Who am I to argue with this? Here's something he wrote a long time ago, before he found the source of his current contentment.
Across The Water
been on the road a while now.
landed on the edge of the final edge,
a beach, empty,
clouded sky backlit by unseen sinking sun.
wind scatters the cold sand,
dunes it around driftwood and rotting seaweed.
a palette of grays and browns.
I look across the water with closed eyes,
casting a line into memory.
a tug as the hook sets six thousand miles away.
the catch: a glistening day,
another beach on another sea,
the breeze cool, the sun warm.
I walk with a lifelong friend and his wife-to-be.
then it was the sun I basked in,
now they are the heat I feel through my jacket.
the wind kicks up,
the line snaps.
my catch slips away
leaving only a few gleaming scales to fade.
I turn to the path that leads to a bedroom
in a town of strangers.
one foot in front of the other.
Peter Ferenczi
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