A Poem Happens On The Periphery

It’s the lace curtain being blown

gently into a room we rarely use.

It’s a marina bar early in the morning

with chairs still upended on tables.

It’s the green, the even green of an insanely

flat rice field that shimmers to the horizon

without rock, weed or flower.

It’s watching a long ago eclipse with

a pinhole in a piece of cardboard and

listening to Here Comes The Sun.

It’s on the periphery that we will find

a door, which, God willing, will open and

let us in.

FG  3/9/2014

Fiction requires the willing suspension of belief ; poetry requires the suspension of self .

Not much about Goffstown here.  The bar was in Gloucester, the eclipse was on Lake Ave in Manchester (on March 7, 1970), and the rice field is well east of Pinardville. 

I’d love to have a long fiction project, if anyone has any ideas.  We might collaborate.  Maybe a crime story (ripped from the headlines) like Pamela Mason and Sandra Valade murders if anyone remembers them.