The Red Journal

For over a year I have looked for my journal of when I was in Europe. I found the slides but the journal was no where to be found. I was so sure that I had written about my travels in a speckled Composition note
book. I have around fifty Composition books and I went through every one, twice, but none had my information about my travels to Germany and other parts of Europe. As I went through some of my books  to see what I would put into the garage sale, I found a small red book with RECORD on the front. I opened it, thinking it might have some financial information, and there was the long, lost travel journal of my European trip.Reading through my journey I could not believe how many little things I had forgotten. Here are three poems I found at the end of my journal.

Never Alone

The two of us, traveling together.

In the morning it greets me as I walk by,

If I cry, it too will cry! 

I see my reflection

brushing my teeth or combing my hair.

It mimics my every expression,

and does what I do.

Its clothes are just like mine,

and it looks exactly like me.

It shows its face when there

is a mirror or glass.

It never tries to go ahead or pass.

Where ever I go, it is with me.

Always with me for me to see.

On the train it sits across from me

On a bus, right next to me.

A pure likeness

exactly like me.
A question makes me wonder

about where does it go when it's not with me?

If we go through a dark tunnel

is it still with me?

Where does it go when I'm not there?

My reflection is my other half
even though it's not flesh and bone,

 when I travel, I am not alone.

Handicapped 

Unseeing eyes behind dark glasses,

clicking a white cane as he walked.

The woman had never heard

a sound, living in a world of silence.

The boy had no legs and rolled

in a chair with wheels.

And I was mute,

unable to speak.

Hearing and not understanding,

seeing and unable to explain,

walking and not knowing where,

because I was a stranger in a foreign land.

The Train

Waiting with anticipation and excitement.

Waiting for the rumbling iron monster to swallow me in its swaying stomach.

A colored caterpillar of cars rolling with definite rhythm.

Ta-ta-tum. Ta-ta-tum. Ta-ta-tum.

Woe be me if I am late,

the roaring mover does not wait.

A screeching scream brings it to a halt

as it expels a loud, raspy breath.

Doors slide open,

people crawl in or out,

each knowing their special route.

 At a designated spot, 
the beast will stop
expelling a loud sigh.

It spits out the weary passengers

to continue its savage assault on the tracks

disappearing into the distance, a tiny dot. 

3 poems by:
E. Moscoso
May 29, 1990