For today’s prompt, write a lost & found poem. I suppose you could focus on either what’s lost or what’s found–or both. Or you could focus on how things change after something lost. Or after something is found. Or…I’m starting to lose my train of thought. I’m sure you’ve probably got the idea.
Here’s my attempt:
“The paths we travel”
Paths are a blessing, but I don’t always
have a map or compass to guide me.
Though paths are still a blessing, I don’t
always follow where they lead me. Sometimes,
I’ll notice a hill or stream and feel compelled
to investigate. Not always, but often,
paths are a blessing, because they help
me find so many new ways to get lost.
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The irony of the lost-and-found poems being lost isn’t lost on me.
I wish only that I could remember what poems I posted on this date and the other "lost" date! Oh, well.
Pam
Finding the Lost
I have such excitement I can barely stand it
Last night with my dinner tray came a gift
From Allah, I believe, for when I removed
The cover from my plate – a tiny red bug
Fluttered up at me and landed on my hand
At first, like a little girl, I squealed, I was so
Startled – my first visitor, besides my lawyer
In – in – in, I cannot remember how long
There is no sense of time here and I am
Denied a watch or any way of telling day
From night – but never mind, now I have
A pet! Alright, it is but an insect, but still
Something alive with me in this desolate
Place and she is so lovely – I am convinced
This dainty thing – all over red with tiny
Black dots cannot be anything but female
Seems almost tame – she flits away
For only seconds at a time, then back
She comes to alight upon one of my hands
At first, I tried to think how to contain her
So she could not fly away but then –
I could not bear the thought of keeping
Her from leaving if leaving is what she wants
For would that not make me as bad as
Those who are keeping me here against
My will – I will not be that person, ever
Then – what to feed my dear lady bug?
And I have come to realize that she is likely
Just that – a ladybug – I remember
From way back in my childhood
Such little things were considered lucky
Back in Canada – but what did they eat?
Or did I ever even know that…
It matters not – I, who was so lost
Have been found and saved for now
By this tiny winged creature, this little
Ladybug; I will put all of my energy
Into keeping her safe, keeping her alive
Doing whatever I can for however long
I might be graced with her presence
She is a gift to one such as me.
ICE
Snow thick as fog
obscures the riverbank
from eyes desperate
for a break.
Low on gas, the snow
mobile stops and two
toddlers get tucked into
the unzipped
mummy bag. New village,
strange route home at dusk,
in snowfall. Father ignores
Mother’s pleas
to stay the night with
colleagues. Instead,
an entire village roused
to search
for new teachers caught
out in subzero temperatures.
Sent on the right trail
by a teenage
hunter running his sled dogs
home from a hunt. Tail
tucked between his legs,
the new principal
already lost face,
almost lost multiple lives
out on the river
of ice.
“It” (palindrome poem)
His demons want “it.”
Father needs “it.”
“It” is necessary.
“It” is searching for something―
Father found “it.”
But
“It” found Father
Something.
For searching… is it necessary?
Is it?
“It” needs Father.
“It” wants demons.
His.
Lost and found Poetry
Lost along bits of broken lives
Only to be found and collaged into poetry
Scraps of overheard conversations
Take new meaning when twisted by poets
Any news item can be poked and prodded
Nothing is safe from satire
Data is absorbed and lyricized
Finding thought in random places
Often in very odd places
Under the third shelf of the used thought store
Never where you expect to find sanity
Dreams can be located lost and written
Poetry is
Often scary
Even
terryifying
Recap of your inner thoughts
Yet still we pursue random acts of writing
Better late than never as I scurry to catch up….
PERFECTION
I think I may have found it,
flinging itself haplessly against
the iron bars of my brain.
It’s a nebulous thing,
creeping about with vain stealth,
hiding behind the kitchen door,
peering at me from behind the rocker,
its eyes blinking in flickers of fire,
winking slyly in evening candlelight.
It’s something I need to capture,
fluttering its wings in frantic panic
as I cup it with care between my hands,
taking it out the front door,
out onto icy front porch steps,
and releasing it into blank night–
hoping to never see it again.
It’s an insidious, deadly thing–
Perfection.
Lost & Found
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
And I shall once again
walk a path lined with
the sweetness of golden
jonquils and daffodils
the remainder of my days,
for thou art with me
in flesh and spirit,
in seed and in papyrus,
oh Seraphim of Love and Light
whose mercy launched
a thousand ships to come
looking for me, refusing
to give in until this bluff
of sharp points and
crumbling rock
had been scaled and
I scooped up, back
into the waiting arms
of Self-Worth.
© 2010 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Lost and Found
We lost
fidelity,
the certainty
of being our greatest loves.
We lost the keeping
of our promises to each other,
the warmth of them,
and truth.
He did allow himself
to be seduced
by the soft-voiced young woman
with lowered eyes.
And I, refraining from golden youth,
fell into other (unregretted) arms.
A fellow traveller, a romantic
story I won’t tell here.
************
We found
the real truth of each other
to each other —
which we then ignored.
In our hearts
we were brother and sister,
not lovers.
Not even best friends, but mirrors.
We found a way back
to our interrupted marriage.
There was love; it was real.
And there were the kids.
I played him like a whore
rather than risk them a stepmother —
mine was cruel, my Dad too weak.
And that’s the truth.
Lost Or Found
He found himself when he found himself
Almost lost in the deep stand of pine.
This quiet resolves itself into
A persistant scatter of small noises
and muffled sound
A crack of dropped branch
Lost from a red pine
A dull thrumming of grouse
Finding each other
The sun’s warm fingers
Touch the needle carpet
And a nut-brown smell
Lifts up. Another shaft of sun
Drops through a column of leaves
On the only aspen here.
The muted sun-warmth
Plays on closed eyelids
In a warm beat.
The largess of a breeze
Narrated by the chitter
Of gray squirrel, and the
Far-off cry of jay, point
The way out, but not yet.
He listens to the
Conversation of trunks,
Trees groaning and creaking
In their slow root dance.
Luke
We searched for my son’s birthday gift
and found the only unnamed dog at the shelter.
The boxer/pit didn’t doggy beg to be taken
from his temporary dwelling when we tested
demeanor and obedience. It is like he knew
to just wag his unusually long tail and with black
bean eyes he could evangelize the gift of a silent
petition that shifts what is unconsciously lost
to the side where found things thrive.
the cyber gremlins struck again!
re-posting here…frell, it’s on my iPad, at home. (Grumble, grumble.)
Driving
August heat rising from
single lane country road.
Cracked asphalt and
ditches thick with
black-eyed Susans.
To be lost,
driving without
any purpose other than
the curiosity to see where
this road will take me.
Air thick with promise:
undiscovered small towns,
secret garage sales,
neon glow of barbecue signs,
ice cream stand invitations.
Navigationally Challenged
Given the choice of left or right,
I’ll pick the wrong way almost every time.
The road not taken is my usual route.
If I ask my wife for directions, she might say,
“You know – you’ve gone there before,”
and I’ll reply, “Only two or three times!”
I’m one of the few men on the planet
not ashamed to ask a passing stranger
for directions. My Tom Tom helps,
but it’s not an airtight guarantee –
I still allow “lost time”, an extra ten minutes
or more for my sense of misdirection.
Today on my job, I interviewed a young man
who is an autistic savant.
He can barely string a sentence together,
and can’t look another human in the eye,
but he knows every street name in the U.S.
and can tell me how to get there.
“He’s a walking GPS,” his dad,
who was with him, remarked. He works
part time as a driver for a senior center,
because he never, ever, gets lost.
How I envy him.
What happened?
#18 I may just have crossed into the twilight zone, what with only one comment here. My connection may be broken…here it is anyway: Day 18: Lost & Found Poem
Lost Summer Youth
Picture me, seated on the old green couch
Mom at work, brothers out climbing trees.
Burgundy drapes pulled to shut out sun
front and back doors open for the breeze.
Seen through the front screen, the tall elms
line the street, wave a symphony of leaves.
Plate of apple chunks warm from the sun
wormy parts cut out, bruise tasting sweet.
Open book on my lap, my legs curled up,
glass of ice cubes to chew against the heat.
Sometimes in dream I’m back in that place
lost in summer youth, free to do as I please.