Years later
his is alone in a hotel room.
The air-condition sings to him,
the muted TV blinks its bright eye
into a darkened room.
It was in a motel room,
a room not so well appointed,
that a poem came to him,
it showed herself to his blindness,
It opened and he entered her
like a thief.
That year
he watched as her crushed spirit
left on a greyhound bus.
No one on that bus
recognized her unread poetry.
This year
here in a hotel alone
where room-service comes when called,
he recalls
trying to write of her once more
but that poem will not now come.
A hawk, moments after dawn,
circling.
Somewhere,
somewhere at the edge of near;
a somewhere known to the pessimistic
as far,
as there,
as not,
not
Here.
Not near.
Occasionally, a flashed shadow
over the sun-bleached apricot sky.
Just to the West.
Where the yellower light spills now
over the half-new roof and well-appointed chimney
of farm/field/stone.
Into the valley of clinging green
and the stone wall edge of the Farm
where the trees have one and all
forgot the late date.
They’ve
steadfastly, triumphantly, unarguably
argued for their summer-earned greens.
The moon is so high as to be unknown.
There above the maple.
There above the shred-ragged, yellowing
banana leaves -
the makeshift windvane of wavily oversea kelp.
Unknown
to the crook of neck,
to the poor sleepers,
to the cheap pillow resters.
It is such a slight sliver
that
it gives a cool shiver
to my flesh.
The momentary thought of,
a splinter of wood getting under skin.
The slight sharp sliver of dim silver moon
seems so sharp as to
threaten to deflate the dim blue,
the pale blue
October sky.
Wish I was a poet, and got well paid
for poems writ whilst wearing suede
and drinking lots ‘n' lots of claret,
in a well-appointed Paris garret
My publisher would love me true,
and pay my rent, when overdue,
so I wouldn't sleep on Montmartre streets
and get under decent people's feets
I'd get well drunk and laid a lot,
(I heard poets do, more oft than not)
and choose, with numbers from a jar,
mam'selles to coucher with each soir.
Les dames Francaises would think me clever
‘cause root and boot are words I'd never
correlate. But sometimes Paris Bourse,
I'd rhyme with sexual intercourse.
And what if, for every verse I penned,
I got a hot brand-new best friend?
I wonder how long could I last,
in a life I led that blazing fast?
My real life's, in truth, synonymous
with being next best to anonymous,
but I suppose that it might be much worse,
had I to catch an early hearse.
NOW DON'T FORGET KIDS CLAP LOUDLY
With a little help from Dorian Grey
I tried to tell you the walls wouldn’t hold
I tried to tell you I’m not getting old
I’m reversing the numbers, baby, from 63 to thirty-six
Either that or I’d rather swim in the river Styx
I’m too young to be as old as the calendar reads
I’m not halfway through sewing my wild seeds
I won’t allow anyone to tell me my hair is getting gray
And my well appointed appearance at thirty-six is the same as it is today
If anyone should doubt my stamina and dexterity
I’ll prove I’m the latter day Peter Pan and I’ll do it with temerity
All my confidence and fortitude on Tinkerbelle is now hung
And if you all clap real loudly for Tink she’ll keep both my soul and body young
To die the same way I look and feel today is my goal
I’ll look like this until I’m six feet deep in a hole
I’m going to go to Hell but I’ll bet for me it’s too cold
And S**T no, I’m not insane, I know that everyone eventually grows old
© 2011.….Phreepoetree
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