Sometimes in the dead of night, I wake up in an immense hole of
silence. Then I wait, with hope and dread, for the first sound to
drop into it. Hope for something benign: the soothing background
music of rain, or an owl’s throaty signal. Dread of a wailing siren, or
the telephone, which at this hour could bring me only a thick, demented
voice, or the impersonal speech issuing from some desk of
disaster. Last night, when it came, it was a sound of blessing
the rough-and-tumble bumping-together of freight cars in the switch yard
down the road – that simple, artless coupling, and a long time later,
the drawn-out, low-voiced hum of the train rolling down the
single track. Sounds of work, of confidence in the night, in getting
from here to there. Sounds of connection; sweet music. I lay there
and listened to the moonless night fill up with sound until the darkness
throbbed with a dream of arrival.

Lisel Mueller (my favorite poet(ess)

If I were a poet, I wouldn't be trying to be a poet.

My name is in fact Mark.
I live next door to the memory of Jack Kerouac
I have been with Neopoet a long time.
Most of my poetry has been removed due to publishing rights.
I like most anything outdoors.
My favorite sport is youth softball (those kids are amazingly quick - just need the power)
I love The White Mountains of New Hampshire

If you are new here at Neopoet learn to navigate the site and especially learn how to use the search engine (located under the tools tab)
Finally, keep an eye on scheduled events and visit the chat room ;)