it is five o’clock somewhere said the blue parrot staring at me
I had accidentally looked up on my way to the Indian Sea
Pardon, I said, asking him if he was talking to me or whoever
I’m not talking to the rain, the clouds or this horrible weather.
He was a snippy one, this parrot with feathers of blue
Slurring his words a bit, I noted, and staring me through.
Come up here and have some rum if you’re not chicken said the bird.
I climbed the tree and had a drink, which may have been a bit absurd.
I wake up each morning
At five o’clock
There seems to be no prior warning
Just me at five o’clock
And I think of something
That won’t leave me
It seems the importance will ring
In my head going round
And it won’t let me sleep
Will there be the answer
Or will I hold my head and weep
As it goes around in my head.
© Paul Warren Poetry
There was so much rain in your voice.
Daytimes that slept with shadows.
Perfect perfidies piling
your W.C. Handy eight-bar bravado
I never knew your midnight,
your pluck of broken glass.
You told stories that left ash trays.
Burning,
burned,
ashes of bruised door frames
and sweaty bodies from emptying yourself
in emptier women.
Too many Lucille’s, but only one fire.
A slow burn
that taught only one thing worth saving:
nothing.
You taught us white boys that crying ain’t got nothing to do with tears.
That we can’t apologize for leaving our eyes in the alleyway.
That you can’t slam every door
without someone wanting to know
why the wind will always resist it.
Today is the first time the rain sounded soaked.
Like an old man
waiting for God to answer for his suffering.
Why he gave us a voice,
and why he made us weep for it.
And we end again,
that wilted sun of repetition.
That ghost finally appears;
that final E9 transuding through
the heavy breath you shake loose.
You undress every agony
and loved her
greater than pain.
And the night gave you
what God never grants us:
nothing.
Poetry inspired by the Frick Collection
• At nine o’clock ( Sewing by lamplight by Millet)
We sit in our campesino existence
Engaging in tasks that provide
Us with livelihood, with purpose,
But, what will you be doing?
No longer in need of the lamplight
We reunite in this belief in time
Which allows us to feel the separation
Of years, yet links us through the
Comprehension of the same concept
And to that end counts the minutes
Til the end and to the next
Moment of connection
At 15:59 I sit here ever captivated
By the wonder of what you glued do
Perpetually at nine o’clock
And he endless possibilities I could
Perform at the same hour
How can it be that hours creep so
yet years swift passage totally blows
my mind? The babes are absorbing
Aristotle, integrating, no more needing
hands held while crossing nor
other mom bossing. Frequently tossing
my glance to the minute hand barely budging
thought occurs playfully charmingly nudging…
Yep, weekends are great for baking and rest
yet each now of this moment just could be the best
ever known, so change mind blown and
let it be shown that life for the weekend ain’t
much to speak of when up against
live for the day.
love came in on Friday
at about three tears
past two o'clock
I didn't recall
leaving the door open
yet I can't say he
was uninvited
I knew I had a visitor
when I felt the
chills on my spine
it was startling
to find him
standing in my heart
the curtains wide open
and sun making
shadows of my fear
on the floor
but I remember
it was a Friday
at about three tears
past two o'clock
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