Tuesday, January 19, 2010


It’s a place that is quiet and serene.
All around is red,
And in the spring it’s covered in green.

Up the wash and up the canyon.
I pass a whale and a rabbit,
And many other rocks shaped as creatures.

Further up the canyon
A little stream flows.
I walk through a tunnel,
And come to a stage.
I sit in box five in the opera house.

I get comfortable and open a book,
Or grab a pen
And let my imagination run wild.

This is my place.

My place does not exist.

It is a desolate area.
Brown and hot,
Flat and covered in sagebrush.

Only a dream,
A figment of my imagination.
A utopia that will never exist.

Something I only dream about.

But the imagination can create this place.

I can build my own paradise.
I only need a pen and paper.

But my place is real.
It survives with me.
It is always in my fantasy.

The physical landscape does exist.
It is my utopia.
My escape.

1 comment:

Liberty Williams said...

Sounds good to me, but then I don't really know poetry...but still - it sounds good!