The day began. Life was pulled while it was still green, and thrown into the streets. A frigid stream of words is caught midway between despair and hope. And all seemed lost. Picking autumn words, with warriors’ ambitions … a poet sets the flaming fires free. That briefly illuminates the void. And for a moment, nothing seems to disconcert anyone, anymore.
Seasons change their socks. But eyes remain covered by clouds. Between today and tomorrow the screams from long masks can be heard. And life becomes sediment at the bottom of the glass. But you bring me love, tender and delicate. A body to pierce the autumn days and nights. And lips the colour of a savage harvest. An endless vacation for me and my yellow lover.
I was dreaming. All I could see was a sparse stand of trees. An autumn, cannot but know the pity of things. I thought. As if by magic, you appeared. Touching me you with my mind I asked the way. “Think of the happiness that’s yet to be” you said. And upon the floor we made a bed of autumn leaves.
It has ravaged and roamed. Supermarket workers, doctors and nurses and the radical poets. Consumed by a surreal sameness. No purpose to rise, for some no purpose to live. But I will not go onto this gentle glide. Nor be robbed of my renewing. I take my pen in my skillful hands. And kiss the lips of the woman I love. This enough, to give an utterance to my surging thoughts.
Early morning coffee, and words that few understand. A calm darkness winding its way around the streets. Where does the quite go? Maybe into the hearts of the birds and the trees all around us? Or in the struggle of the smaller crafts, as the masks of the world crack open. From my window I look to the sky, and echoes of earthly desires. I sip my coffee to the joys of love’s offerings, and another Sunday morning.
The taxi door closed, and the taxi drove off. Left in a zone of creeping thoughts, I started to walk. I remembered a poem by Charles Bukowski: “I fall into it without trying…”. And thought to myself, there’s no point bitching about bad luck and bad people. It’s just a splash in the ocean. A kind of out-of-sight dreaming, always present, but for the eyes of other people.
Long ago, I was wounded. And surrounded by people wailing and weeping. Waiting for spring flowers. But this was just a moment on earth. Wrapped in the birdweed of life. And poems of returning home. Like the flight of a wild duck, I moved on. Floating down the waters. To a shining island palace. And the fruits of your soul. While you are in this world, I cannot grow tired. The one I love, I say. And I am living still.
The leaves are piling up. And the streets are holding troubled heads. Before long, even the morning sun will leave this place. What is left will create havoc on our bones, and the poet’s words will not be heard at all. The slugs will be left to crawl up and down the bathroom walls. Heading towards a dusky darkness. There will be nobody left to sing the whispers of the breeze. Just black wings of damp loneliness.
When I walk along this path, by the river, and in the rain and alone……. I am now walking with you. Your soft dark hair soon blends with the sky. Your vivacious lips on the skin of a woman. A wildflower bloom of passion. The taste of summer fruit. And the world rustling by. I think I will keep on walking.
Autumn nights reaching to the back of my dreams. There’s nothing more delicious than thinking of you. Jazz music in the breeze. Running shampoo through your hair. This is what I like the most.
A Wandering Poet 