Thursday, October 10, 2013


Recently a friend sent me a stack of letters I had written nearly three decades ago. Talk about a blast from the past. Well, in the stack of letters was a poem I had written that had come out of my frustration of sharing scrapbook memories with people who hadn't been there and hadn't done that. They didn't "get it."


They are just pictures to you,
No significance, no sensation.
Just photos of faraway places,
Unfamiliar faces.

They are just songs to you.
No meaning, no feeling.
Just songs from a band,
Not in demand.

They are just stories to you,
No life, no joy,
Just stories of a time,
Stories of mine.

They are just pictures to you,
But to me, they are memories.

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