Envelope
by: Billy Collins
When a stamp was affixed
to the northeast corner,
all went dark
in the great state of Maine.
Ya'll know how I feel about letter writing. It's a lost art form, and, with each passing day and each new social media platform, fewer and fewer people will know the pleasure of receiving handwritten notes and cards from relatives/friends/admirers (says the person who is currently typing a blog post). The gift of words is quickly going the way of the woolly mammoth.
Poetry, however, is alive and well and kicking. This past week's poetry festival has been ample evidence of the power of words to still move and excite people. Tonight was the wrap-up/afterglow event. Three poets, one musician (all good friends) sharing their work. It was relaxed and full of joy. No pressure. Just language and music and laughter.
Saint Marty is looking forward to a nap now.
Postcards
by: Martin Achatz
When my sister
went to Florida,
she always sent me
postcards of orange
trees and manatees.
Dead now for nine
years, she still hasn't
mailed me a postcard
of cumuli and fat cherubs,
maybe with the caption
A little slice of heaven!
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