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. The Journey 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
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