The
ceremony reminded me Of
a burial at sea Except
this was a lake Not
an ocean and, of course, There
was no dead body. I
can’t even recall the purpose, But
I remember watching The
canoes on the water, Paper
lanterns strung out From
bow to stern And
the campers Looking
like monks the way They
moved ritualistically Slow
with the paddles, Singing
in a voice That
sounded foreign as It
traveled across the lake. Raining,
and this added To
the sense of wonder And
power I felt Watching
life happen Without
understanding or Caring
why since I Was
only fifteen and still Waiting
on a broken heart.
John Abbott is a writer, musician, and
English instructor who lives with his wife and daughter in Kalamazoo,
Michigan. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Potomac
Review, Georgetown Review, Chiron Review, Arcadia, Nova Scotia Review,
Ballard Street Poetry Journal, upstreet, Birmingham Arts Journal, and
many others. He recently completed his first book of poems. For more
information about his writing, please visit www.johnabbottauthor.com
At some point it started
For years now I’ve been trying to
write something based on my experiences at a camp I attended when I was
young. After several failed attempts at a story, I turned to poetry. I
had been writing other poems about lakes, so it seemed only natural to
start with the lake the camp was named for. I wrote most of it in one
sitting, but I couldn’t get the ending right until I remembered a
conversation I had had with another camper who said this about being
fifteen: “It’s the best age really. You’re as close
to being an adult as you can get without anyone expecting anything from
you.”
