Poets Online Archive

TRAVELERS
“A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.” ― Lao Tzu

We had made our plans,
itinerary set, hotels booked,
car checked before we left
for ten days of vacation.
We were intent on arriving
at our first stop by 3 pm.
But the best-laid plans,
as a poet once reminded us,
often go awry

and so here we are
in a no-reservation motel
three days in, heading home
feeling like bad travelers,
but no one sees the plow
headed towards them,
not mouse or Lao Tzu,
and we are still intent
on arriving safely home.

Lily Hayashi

HEART OF THE HIKE

Four miles from home, a parking turnout
for a short hike in the woods. My dog and I
have different objectives. Born and raised
in the wild, only half civilized, he scouts
squirrels. I look for wildflowers. We’re
clipped together by leash law. Head high,
tail a dark plume, he takes a steep dirt path
climbing. It’s May, fairy lanterns light
their white globes in the deep-dark of oak
and toyon woods. We drop down to a creek,
our turnaround point, and start back
on a different rougher path. My dog’s
at a fast trot, we’re making good time –
I step wrong on a rock, crash onto my knee;
gravel bites into my forearm. Hobble
to my feet. Slow down! I tell him. And
he understands – for the first time
since I’ve known him. He guides me
back to the car. Wildflowers are lovely.
What I remember is the heart of my dog.

Taylor Graham

THE PERFECT MAN

On the longest and shortest flight of my life,
I met the perfect man.

He was squeezed into the middle seat
like a gift that doesn't quite fit in its box.

I sat by the window, planning to watch
the landscape change as we flew cross-country.

But unlike the teen asleep on the aisle,
the man shook my hand and told me his name.

He was glamorous as a Disney prince,
with glossy hair, hazel eyes, and a smile wide

as the wings of the plane. I surreptitiously
scanned his hand for a wedding ring,

and finding none, shoved my novel
under the seat in front of me.

We talked about musicals, meditation,
modern paintings, matcha drinks.

As hours passed, I never once
looked out the window,

missed America's motley mural.
When the wheels went down,

I timidly ventured a personal question:
Who do you live with?

His answer: My partner of sixteen years.
My face turned red as a runway light.

We grabbed our bags and said goodbye,
suddenly formal as wedding vows,

and the perfect man walked down the aisle
of the 737 and out of my life.

Susan Spaeth Cherry

EDEN
In the United States, there are 6 cities named Eden (Utah, Texas, Wisconsin, North Carolina, Maryland, New York)

I have traveled to three cities that say they are Eden.
I'm in a fourth Eden today.
That is a lot of pressure to put on a town.
This one, with fewer than a thousand residents
and at five thousand feet, might have a chance
at the claim during summer when skiers are gone.
Surely in that other Eden, there was a river,
and here between the forks is clear water.
Maybe it runs towards a waterfall
that crashes and foams,
throwing up a mist of rainbow all day.
I'm sitting with my coffee and notebook
watching a man with a rod and creel
walking toward a reservoir, and two women
biking up a hill, and in reflection
the sun, sky, clouds, and trees
in an upside-down wet impressionist mirror.
My thoughts are on tomorrow, back on the road
and on the horizon, where I imagine another river
drops down this mountainside to the valley
where it spreads out into smaller streams and creeks,
each hoping to reach some vast ocean in their future,
that I know with my own certainty that they will never reach.

Katherine Milburn

BUCKET LIST TRIPS

There won’t be any more of them.
The constant movement on foot or train.
Google Maps redirecting and frustrating us both
as we step like spastics to the
whim of arrows and dotted blue lines.

No more spinning suitcases battling against rut
and cobble, hoisted overhead and dragged
uphill, always uphill. Trying and failing to
follow VRBO host directions to lockboxes holding
expensive keys to drab and uncomfortable apartments.

The vague hope and fragile promise of
standing amid coffee table book beauty, vanished.
The Accademia has no space to contemplate
David’s profundities of proportion, contemplation and strength.
It’s consumed by haphazardly coiffed Insta influencers.

One Euro for the privilege of peeing in
dingy lakeside toilets in need of repair.
Legions of tour groups licking gelato cones
as they meander like oxen over the
Ponte Vecchio, oblivious to their oafish obstruction.

Better to mimic the Matrix and plug
a universe into one’s head than play
chicken with motorcycles, taxis and delivery vans
as they stake claim to another lane
that once accommodated the ambler from abroad.

Rob Friedman

POETRY IN MOTION.

From a berth below the water line,
We gazed up to see a pale blue sky
Float by.
We glimpsed a feeble, pale sun, shine.
The rain had gone but our Sun was shy,
Hiding behind some thin French clouds.
On the good ship 'Thomas Hardy,'
Far, indeed, from the Madding Crowds!'

Bridges, churches, yellow-walled towns,
Flowed stately along in ancient song,
Serenaded by an orchestral tide,
Past vineyards, Lyons, Chalon sur Saone!
A river boat cruise, a place to hide,
In an expedition down the River Rhone!

We sailed on smoothly through the night-
Safe passage towards a brand-new dawn-
Like Van Gogh's sunflowers seeking the light,
We stretched out, lounge-wards, to greet the morn!
Lean ham, French cheese, a crusty baguette!
A River of Lethe in which to forget
Our troubles, ailments, the calls on our time
In the poetry of motion,
In the remedy of rhyme!

John Botterill

BIENVENUE AU LOIRET

The thing about the dark
is that it can get darker.
.
In passing, let me say
Europe wasn't scripted
by Disney, edited by parish
priests or native Pollyannas
and not all roads lead to Rome,
no matter what Geoff Chaucer
would have had us believe.
.
The road I'm retravelling
was in France - le Loiret
as a matter of fact - not
far from where Alain Delon
used to live - fly in and
out in his private plane -
or helicopter - lucky devil.
I suppose if he'd moved
around by car he'd have
been driven by a chauffeur.
.
I was alone at the wheel
in a beat-up deux chevaux -
and in case you don't know
these Citroëns were
about as far from Ferrari
as the term "vehicle" gets.
.
And the road wasn't
much to speak of either.
In some places you could
still see the mitan de frayé -
that central strip of green
of what had once been
path of an ox or donkey cart.
.
And when sun went down?
Not even a four-legged
sentient being around,
much less a biped.
That's when my whip
wiped out.
.
And it wasn't a neat plonk -
nope, it plopped and provocatively
spluttered for a few more unmapped
kilometres until I was good and lost.
.
And night was coming on
fast - faster than that car
had ever managed.
.
Today I thank whatever divine
cohort provided me
with a luke warm Perrier
and one of those back seat
blankets the French call
a plaid because, well, they're
invariantly tartanesque.
Together these items ensured
my making it through 'til morning.
.
Never head out at dusk.
Wherever you're going.
Da Capo al fine.
.
Timea Deinhardt

HEALING IN TAHITI

In Papeete, the Paul Gauguin Gallery seems to be empty
And abandoned with no plans for revival,
But there is a shiny new museum of Polynesian
Artifacts, full of students, quietly taking notes
On the ancient sculptures, the feathered headdresses,
The timeless tools and jewels. We can only speculate
Why one of France’s masters of art has faded in the place
That made him famous. The epidemic of gonorrhea he
Gifted to the women of Tahiti is one possibility.
There may be other reasons, but what is our excuse
For showing up in Tahiti? We’re not painters. We are
Not even tourists. We’re just lonely pilgrims
Seeking healing along with thousands of Tahitians who
Ask for nothing more than a quiet, clean life.
Their land has been confiscated, and our son has died.
Which sorrow is worse? From a universal perspective,
Our grief can be measured with a microscope, and theirs
By a massive planetarium, yet irreversible loss and the
Silent solitude that hovers forever can never truly be
Computed. So we, with the people of Tahiti, welcome
The downpours in the rainforest, generating the coconuts,
Breadfruit and the bananas that feed us each morning,
Celebrate the waterfalls, surrounded by fragrant ginger
And wild gardenias, walk together to the black sand
Beaches and wade among the clean corals and the
Yellow angelfish in the pristine lagoon. Even the
Sharks in Tahiti are harmless as they glide among us
With the manta rays who have lived in this reef for
Millennia, confiscating nothing. And finally, we embrace
The thunder and lightning, following the glorious sunset
That paints the tall clouds like a feathered cape as the
Southern stars emerge, bringing peace, healing, and hope.

Rose Anna Higashi

GOING BACK HOME

There’s always a certain starting and ending point
And often they are the same
Ninth Street- the neighborhood’s main thoroughfare
A ground zero of childhood memories
The train station that brought me to the beach
and back- hot, and sticky and tuckered out
The same steps which my sister
would climb with her young daughter
asleep in a stroller
The heat of the subway
escaping with them as they neared the top
My mom, sister and I waiting for them
outside the old church just steps away
St. Thomas Aquinas
I tried all three front doors – each locked
The rectory sign said ”We’re open, ring the bell”
But all I wanted was to light a candle or two
My sister was married there
Images of mom in a beautiful blue
and dad in a white jacket
Swirls of bright pink and avocado dresses
I moved on towards the conveniently situated
funeral parlor next door where my grandpa was laid out
Same name, same “can’t keep ‘em out” business
Then the light brick post office farther up
I recall being inside with my mom
Folks likely sending off quaint things
like handwritten letters and cards
Next, the old not as creepy Victorian - still there
I stopped to admire its ageing beauty
The porn theater once a few paces up
long ago gave way to other delights -
A golden arches in all its red and yellow glossiness
The first I’d ever seen – and one of the few “restaurants” in the area
Next the curious double-decker retail shops
Once mesmerizing the pre-mall acquainted me
One ground level shop
and the other accessible via a long flight of stairs
I never climbed them nor did I that day
but I liked that they still existed
Their neighbor, the stalwart locksmith
offering 24 hour service to the city that never sleeps
but one with an apparent tendency for 2 and 3am lockouts
The tavern on its right now replaced
but one right around the corner remains
An old relic sure to achieve historic status one day
I recalled the waft of briny spirits permeating the air outside
Back to the corner and the new/old bank
A small, sleek, smooth contemporary structure
unlike its stately competitor once across the way
with its creamy blocks of marble and brass light fixtures
Change has never come easily to me but
I wondered how one demos such beauty
I turned and looked back down that long stretch of block
I wondered some more-
Did the pavement recognize my step?
Did the well-matured trees know my years?
And most of all, how many times would I journey back
until none of us could recall the other?

Terri J. Guttilla

OCTOBER BACKPACK SOLO

When mountain meadows turn golden tan
and rays of sun fold into one earlier each day

as they are pulled below the horizon
I keep my eyes on the deepening blue

for that first planet as the moon rises,
the earth cools and the owl hoots. In that

Stillness, autumn sneaks in, my heart
descends to acceptance of summer's end,

my body chills under billions of twinkles
blinking at earth, millions of years away

melting my mind into the continuum of
the universe, and I find I am not alone

but with the past and future all at once.
At last I close my tent, crawl in my bag.

The birds sing early, the squirrels fling scales
off cones swirling, whirling to the ground,

rising sun and coffee warm and wake
me, one last day for nature's charm to take

me, embrace me, as I climb one last time
before the snow dusts the mountain face.

Leslayann Schecterson

A SMALL SUITCASE

We had a theory back then -

drivers were more likely
to pick up hitchhikers
carrying a small suitcase
than a bulky rucksack.
It worked like a dream,
a cardboard case of dreams
that we carried inside and out.

We reveled in the excitement of it.
Usually we were directionless,
always without maps or money,
using our meager annual leave,
unpaid leave
and time between jobs.
We traveled for the sake of it,
for the love of different languages, cultures,
the wonderful people encountered on the way,
and even to even a country that no longer exists,
destroyed as it was by war and its aftermath.

Yesterday
I came across it again, my old suitcase
buried in a heap of debris in my attic.
It was battered from its long travels
and even longer vacation.
Its cardboard was torn
and frayed as a dream
waiting
to be carried away.
Memories buried
in the debris
of the past
now
recovered
unwrapped
like a present
in the present.

Lynn White

TRAVELING TO TEMPLE CITY BY BUS

On Rosemead and Las Tunas
a giant teapot
as if held by ghost hands
pours in midair

I have come to believe
that it is a reincarnate
of the china tea set
wrapped in reused paper
I gave you for your birthday
along with other things
through the years
before we severed ties

If only you could see
driving to work
what a gargantuan landmark
my gift has become
cascade glistening
in the sunlight
overfilling the cup
with endless wealth
I've always wished for you

Jackie Chou

DESIDERATA (DESERT SONGS)

I.
the sun shifts the earth shifts the road straight
the way not
out here there is nothing but miles
and the heart whistling in your ears like a raven
memory gnaws at the edges nagging nameless
and the road it seems unending
this emptiness
was it there all along

II.
you find a hole in your map where the world once was
but what is a map but badly-folded desires
III.
a lone gray cloud trails rain like your grandmother
letting down her hair for bed when you were young

ahead where the road should be the sky swims
in it the universe is floating upside-down

IV.
on your right a mesa a child's striped drum upright
on the dusty attic floor
sun-slant catches the west rim
in a blaze of rust and from the east face shadows spill
the desert aspires only for night
not like you
but
where does this journey end and for what or whom
no answer
words dry up
darkness swarms
the desert dreams of nothing at all

V.
night stretches out a hand and hides everything
except loss which travels with you
yet there
at road’s end the moon an oasis of light

Charlie Cobean

Poets Online Archive

Travel June 2026 Issue 347

Travel
June 2026 Issue 347