Create a poster of a poem.

Staat und Non-Profit

No business

I'd like to have my friend's poem laid out in calligraphy (perhaps computer-generated, perhaps hand-done calligraphy) plus tasteful adornment of the page. The deliverables I'll want are an Microsoft Word or pdf file of it as well as two printed-out copies on high-quality ivory or white heavy paper that's approximately 11" x 14" One would be mailed to Marty Nemko, 5936 Chabolyn Terrace, Oakland, CA USA. The other would be mailed to Scott Lubbock, P.O. Box 5250, Eugene, OR 97405, USA. Here's the poem: TRAVEL GAME Roofs. This time roofs. I have done fences, cars, lawns, And yesterday trees. From train windows. That’s the Whole idea. To purchase your ticket on a train, sit by The window and give special attention to a particular Detail of the countryside. This time I chose roofs on The train ride from Paris to Chartres in the morning And back in the late afternoon, trying not to be overly Distracted by the man sorting through trash bags for A meal. The purpose of the game is not to ignore the World, pleasant or unpleasant, the reeking homeless Or the vacationing privileged or those simply going To and from work or school. It is simply an exercise In observation, a story telling game, and each story Begins with a roof. Today. Tomorrow’s stories may All begin with farm animals, inviting a very different Kind of tale, or whatever tote or purse or bag my Fellow passengers are carrying. I say ‘passengers’ Because the story will decide if they are travelers or Students or commuters or strangers in flight from. But today it is roofs, speculations about what has Occurred under that rugged country thatch, wild Guesses about dreams once in residence where Heavy tiles caved in, circumstances that determined The tight, neat patches of different colored asphalt Shingles on a farmhouse roof, thoughts about who Might have given up what and moved on when the Barn collapsed or was a bright green metal roof Enough to convince someone to stay when a home Among the trees became grey and weathered. Does Plastic tarping tell a story of despair or patience. I Could be right or wrong about every supposition, Every writer’s invention, but only about which Story happened where. Someone was born or died, Played or cried, saw a hope manifested or broken Under each roof, and tonight I will sleep in Paris.

This is simply a gift to a friend of mine, who is the author of that poem.

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