Wow. I haven't done a lot of big travelling but you describe a scene many can relate to most definitely. It also inspired me to write a poem, if it can be called that.
Wonderful to read your poetry Miguel. One can definitely feel it was drawn from your feelings towards travelling 😊
His heart was never where his feet were. Moving through the daily grind Emerson longed for things in life that he thought would satisfy him. He worked hard to achieve his dreams but in the end found that they were still not enough to satisfy his mind.
One day he said enough is enough. Emerson boarded a plane and headed off to a place where he was able to explore old ideas. As he explored the world he could observe, feel and be at one with the things his heart never knew existed.
This poem reminds me of the magic of being someplace off the beaten path for the first time. Someplace not found in glossy travel magazines, chamber of commerce lists, Google Earth pins, or look-at-me blogs. ps- I'm in my little cabin in the woods as I write this.
Saaame 😭😭 We got baited with a super cheap flight to Japan (it wasn't cheap when you added luggage) and since then I'm sad and want to go somewhere lol 😂
Yeah. I think it's not about the English skill level, as much as having the rhytmical feel that the native language offers. Idk. It's interesting cause prose just comes to me naturally in English.
She leaves Lindisfarne behind her, and York nears by the hour. The 911 is a black eye feeding the horizon, the sky tasting of unread maps and sun-warmed thyme.
Driving and driving, past fields and fields, past whispering wheat-codes and mile-markers... (Who is driving whom?)
The radio slips between stations, drowning in static, salty and bright, sounding like aluminium foil crinkled into dawn.
Numbers fall from the clock, timeless, miles gone—just a white line that bleeds into the rearview mirror.
And, as if partnered in a slow waltz, she glides into thoughts of just one person.
My thumb was not broken. It stood out enlarged: a foam rubber red thumb to draw attention. I left longing to no longer linger and waste my time. The length of summer I knew was too short. Wanderlust stepped in. My feet walk about to the side of road. Stop. Stuck out my thumb. Cars passed me by. Then I met Joy. We agreed. Going my way. She was an asset. Lift her skirt, truck skid to a stop. Cross country, California road warriors. Air conditioned cabs across desert diesel dunes, cafes, food/beer. Joy stayed, free summer fling; years passed.
Wow. I haven't done a lot of big travelling but you describe a scene many can relate to most definitely. It also inspired me to write a poem, if it can be called that.
Wonderful to read your poetry Miguel. One can definitely feel it was drawn from your feelings towards travelling 😊
You had me at this: "being homesick of places you’ve never been to"
It took me right back to my twenties. What an incredible piece of writing
Thank you Rananda 🥹
His heart was never where his feet were. Moving through the daily grind Emerson longed for things in life that he thought would satisfy him. He worked hard to achieve his dreams but in the end found that they were still not enough to satisfy his mind.
One day he said enough is enough. Emerson boarded a plane and headed off to a place where he was able to explore old ideas. As he explored the world he could observe, feel and be at one with the things his heart never knew existed.
It’s too bad he needed to work.
This poem reminds me of the magic of being someplace off the beaten path for the first time. Someplace not found in glossy travel magazines, chamber of commerce lists, Google Earth pins, or look-at-me blogs. ps- I'm in my little cabin in the woods as I write this.
I so want to be in a little cabin in the woods/by the lake and just write!
The wanderer's ribcage bursts with desire
To push on through the ache, eyes burn
To glance above the next ridge crest,
To glut on newness of the view.
Ribs saw up and down, lungs raw and raging
Stabs of exhaustion like eagles
Ripping sides and chewing tripes
But the wanderer wanders on today,
Today and tomorrow, until there are no more steps to take
Until the journey is done
Long time no see A.P.! Glad to have you back writing with us 🫡
I remember a windy day in Athens
I remember lunch on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence
I remember viewing Paris from the Eiffel Tower
And so much more.
My heart and mind are full.
You put it into words far better than I ever could, Miguel. Annnnnd now I want to travel...
Saaame 😭😭 We got baited with a super cheap flight to Japan (it wasn't cheap when you added luggage) and since then I'm sad and want to go somewhere lol 😂
Japan is on our list and will most likely be our next big trip, happening next year. I'll have to get your notes.
It's the best man. The happiest 3 weeks of my life were there haha.
Ummm that sounds like wayyyyy more than a 5-star rating.
It's the same for me. I can't write poetry in English. It's more about my built-in perception than the proficiency in the languages, seemingly.
Yeah. I think it's not about the English skill level, as much as having the rhytmical feel that the native language offers. Idk. It's interesting cause prose just comes to me naturally in English.
Open Throttle Wanderlust
She leaves Lindisfarne behind her, and York nears by the hour. The 911 is a black eye feeding the horizon, the sky tasting of unread maps and sun-warmed thyme.
Driving and driving, past fields and fields, past whispering wheat-codes and mile-markers... (Who is driving whom?)
The radio slips between stations, drowning in static, salty and bright, sounding like aluminium foil crinkled into dawn.
Numbers fall from the clock, timeless, miles gone—just a white line that bleeds into the rearview mirror.
And, as if partnered in a slow waltz, she glides into thoughts of just one person.
Wanderlust - 100mg Microfiction
__________________________
Eva was known as the wanderlust child. She wanted more than her small-town life—craved the unknown.
She boarded a plane to a country whose language she didn’t speak, chasing beauty and thrill. She wandered off the map, ignoring warnings.
One evening, lost in narrow alleys that twisted through an unfamiliar city, she realized she was being followed.
Her heart pounded.
Streetlights flickered.
Shadows stretched too long. Her phone had no signal.
Doors were locked.
Voices whispered behind her, closer now.
She ran.
No one ever found her body: just her journal that was smeared with tears and blood.
My wanderlust is confined
To the 20 acres I call mine
But the animals are owners true
Because climate deniers are past due
A small patch of nature stirs
My heart like a loved sister
Mother Nature is her name
Come join in her lovely game
Why there's the cardinal
Eating seeds and all
The black bear comes also
He stands like a human on toe
Flowers are blooming all around
and vegetables are sunning as they come from the ground
A home for butterflies and such
I love the hummers way too much
A little cabin in the woods
Anyone would want one if they could
My joy comes from that sweet place
Get out of the great American rat race!
Thank you , Miguel !
Great poem of yours !
Thank you , Izzibella !
Thank you, Scott!
Thank you, Jeannine!
The Germans cook up compound words
With frightening efficiency
Like Kindergarten, schadenfreude
Sure is no deficiency
For travelers who love to roam
There’s such a word for them to trust
And while it sounds like deadly sin
It’s good and joyous: Wanderlust!
My father's soul burned with wanderlust.
Never truly happy unless on the move.
His wandering heart would have turned to rust,
If he'd been forced to tread one groove.
But my soul's different, more like a tree,
With deep roots to bind me to my home.
I cannot travel, my feet aren't free
To traipse the world, rooted in loam.
Both ways are right, no way is wrong.
Our hearts all know where we belong.
My thumb was not broken. It stood out enlarged: a foam rubber red thumb to draw attention. I left longing to no longer linger and waste my time. The length of summer I knew was too short. Wanderlust stepped in. My feet walk about to the side of road. Stop. Stuck out my thumb. Cars passed me by. Then I met Joy. We agreed. Going my way. She was an asset. Lift her skirt, truck skid to a stop. Cross country, California road warriors. Air conditioned cabs across desert diesel dunes, cafes, food/beer. Joy stayed, free summer fling; years passed.
PROMPT: WANDERLUST
THE TRAVELLING
A quick bit of travelling,
Good for us all,
But not so good,
In a game of basketball... 🏀😎🏀
That last stanza captures the essence of travel perfectly. Very nicely done... 😎👍