There is a guy I know
who hails from sunny Brazil ~
Sea stories he loves to tell
of his many years as a merchant seaman
before deciding to become an architect
But those are days long gone,
my friend now lives as a retiree.
Tending to a garden, he chases snakes
and to relax he drinks pink gin
then has a daily nap.
But when the evening rolls around
this Romeo gets all dressed up
and takes his Juliet out on the town
to dine and samba all night long.
He loves to serenade her under the full moon.
He had his eye on setting sail out east
to travel the European continent
so off he goes for a great adventure.
When he’ll come back we just don’t know
But certainly he’ll share with us his fill of stories.
AP: Honorable Mention 2023, Honorable Mention 2023
Categories:
alastair, age, friend, life, sea,
Form: Free verse
Alastair Monday
You were profoundly anti-social
Just a board hoping
investing in autumns hopes
While wearing winters coat
Developing dreams far away
Only he believes in prayer
You grew up
In a world full of hopelessness
Who you trying to impress
In each and every sin
Is where you continue in
Where do I begin
Tuesday heartbreak
Wednesdays heartache
Thursday morning debacle
Friday frozen Texas chili
Saturday pastel raisin cane
Sunday honey suckle rose
Alastair Monday
Born on Sunday
On the 4th of July
Gonna cry
Born in a kitchen at a mission
Who you trying to impress
In a world full of hopelessness
written words by James Edward Lee Sr.
arranged music by Jonathan Echtinaw
Categories:
alastair, adventure, allusion, celebrity, metaphor,
Form: Free verse
from: "Me to You", by Alastair Reid
"...write me about the weather.
Perhaps
a letter across water,
something like this, but better,
would almost take us strangely
closer to home.
Write, and I'll come."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Monterrey, Nuevo Leon
Dizzied by the whirl of crowds
On sidewalks, seen through windows --
Reflected in mirrored, columned walls --
I drink, I eat, I mull and fret, I yearn,
Little lulled by homely music
Softly playing beneath sonorous
Strains of Spanish
(Beautiful tongue, not yet my own,
But now not strange to me --
Not wholly foreign.)
I sneak sidelong glances, I peek, I stare.
I feign indifference:
A pseudo-cosmopolitan air.
I am quiet and excessively polite,
Not yet knowing how to be rude
In this still stiff idiom.
And, I am intensely lonely --
Hungry for a caressing, offhand phrase,
Only a stray familiar word, hardly heard,
Whispering all there is to say of home.
Categories:
alastair, angst, depression, introspection, music,
Form: Free verse