To a Stranger by Walt Whitman

One of the more endearing poems I have read recently by one of my favorite writers, Walt Whitman.

To all those who travel the world, meet new people and let their imaginations run wild:

To a Stranger
by Walt Whitman

PASSING stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,

You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)

I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,

All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,

You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,

I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,

You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,

I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,

I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,

I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

The Sandbox

Welcome to the sandbox
Wont you come and play with me?
The sand is warm, the sun is bright;
We will wander well within sight.

You squint your eyes and purse your lips,
"I only have recess", you say, hands to your hips.
"We'll make it short" I say, as you look to your watch.
You step in: "that suits me, you see I have my life to catch" .

The grains are soft, smooth and thin
You waste no time, plunging right in.
"Lets build some castles high into the air",
Your eyes dance, the wind plays with your hair.

The walls grow taller and time slows down,
How deftly move your hands, gentle and brown.
"This is so much fun!" you finally say;
Clouds gather in the distance, menacing and gray.

The first drops of reality bite into the sand
Recess is over! You suddenly stand.
"I have to go, I have my life to catch"
"We made it short" I smile, as I look to my watch.

Thunder strikes closer and it pours down
Your tiny feet leave marks in the ground.
The sandbox is wet and full of rain
It will be a while before I play again.

I turn back at the castles, they are bound to fall,
Reality lashes at mine first as yours stands tall
For you had built your walls high
And I had built mine low.

The Hero

A poem I wrote while sitting in the bus in a snow-storm in New York City.

The Hero

One may reckon and let it go
What mettle and spirit makes a hero.
One may dream and even fly high
Thinking he can be someone, capture a sigh.

A thought like so hit me of late--
I happened to be passing near an iron gate
And then, as if it was a dream
I heard behind me a frightful scream.

The scene was typical and the setting right.
"Help!" shrieked the maiden, her eyes shut tight.
Notorious seemed the thugs who made her cower
But the spirit in me did not go lower.

With a fiery battle cry and ominous words
I leaped forward: "Leave her alone, you turds!"
The maiden smiled as I swung at one
My macho heroics made the villains shun.

My coat was tattered, torn and misfit
As I staggered to her, fire in my heart lit.
Her eyes were closed and lo! they bloomed
Alas! She was the village witch--I was doomed.

I glanced at the sheriffs I had killed
And then at the witch, her teeth all frilled.
She bared her claws and lunged at me
All at once I could not see.

No words of thanks, no compassionate hug
The hero lay paralyzed like on some kind of drug.
The hideous witch beat him with all her might.
"Help!" shrieked the hero, his eyes shut tight.