The Saw Hold this, my father said, Meaning the board he was cutting For another project he would never finish. The silver-toothed saw snickered and whined. It was his way, I guess, Of reaching out. I saw nothing at all, A small boy who wanted only To go out and play. © Glen Fisher
Then there are the poems – pomes, John Lennon called them – which are unfamous by definition, since they never were published, or submitted for publication.
This is a conceit, of course – these poems like their published cousins would doubtless be languishing in the same dry obscurity even if they had been published. Still, it’s a nice point to make – you know, I coulda been champion of the world!
Here’s one of them.
Some journeys are a metaphor, and this
Just past, continues in my mind.
It’s true, we’ve travelled down this way before,
But love sees more when love is blind.
The journey outward seemed like a return.
Once in the air, our thoughts turned south.
Though coming home was leaving all again,
I touched your knee, and longed to kiss your mouth.
We both knew better. But who cared?
Time heals, it seems, but does not cure.
A different kind of truth was bared.
We said goodbye, but wanted more.
My darling, though you are not mine,
My journey has a different aim:
To leave until you give the sign
That brings me to your heart again.