Scrapbook One Hundred Sixty Four…

scrapbook

JANUARY 2017

When Forrest sent me this poem I was put a little aback, Here is what I sent him:

“I don’t know how long you worked on that poem but it is pretty delicious, gut-wrenching and personal…
It’s very cool Forrest…
I think it reveals a lot about your feelings about war…
and loss…
But it conceals a great deal as well and that will be what folks will discuss…

I noted a couple of typos…or maybe they are intentionals…

Imagination is more fun than knowledge 
Did you mean to spell knowledge correctly…?
You have a reputation for your unique spelling of knowlege..

where on some Flanders Field my favoured companions fought.
Did you intend to use the Brit spelling of favored?…probably so…it works very well…

This mysterious vestige of a sailing past, shappend by myriad winds and waves, 
Did you mean shappend or shaped?

And here is what Forrest replied:
“Leave everything alone.”

Below is Forrest’s poem and original note:


Imagination is more fun than knowledge

A wanderer chanced upon this driftwood art, shipwrecked and lonely on a sandy shore. At least to me it plays that part; an olden sailing ship,
and nothing more.
Or maybe it’s a desperate soul, a sentimental sort, standing on a sodden knoll, searching for his Candy Ann, who, absent from her role, lately departed from a distant port.
And no one was there to pay her toll.
Or is it not his throbbing Ann, wrapped in shroud against the breezing cold, yelling with all she can, a screaming voice so loud, and nothing there is told.
Is she below the saline door forever reaching back no more?

But is it all for naught, wild upon my imaginations fraught; dreaming of wild journeys too late sought, or of cold battles where on some Flanders Field my favoured companions fought.
Let it stop now, and be no more.

This mysterious vestige of a sailing past, shappend by myriad winds and waves, occupies my hand at last, subject to whatever whim my mind, in its wanderings, craves.
And that will henceforth, forever be her lore.


A treasure searcher, a pleasant stranger, posted me this wonderful wooden hand-size object along with words that bare, wonderful enough to covet, yet too personal to share.

This paragon of expression stands straight and bold. Its blackened keel, harden by fire, hints of battles fought and won. A single jib yet unfurled, still serves testament to this vessels willingness to bare its gun.

Surprisingly the forces of oceanic turbulence combined to pare this ready boat. I’ve told you what I think, but what else does it know?

Thank you for the favor, Mister Poe. f