They hang from the rafters,
swing and slide, bannister
riding people who swill
life down in a single consuming
gulp, swallow taste, world,
emotion in a rattle cry
that echoes in the throat,
thumping through the thin walls
of their candy-colored streamline
automobile baby.
They are my used to be
but never really were
friends
rumor and offense
were too scintillating
to turn down
forget about how kind
I always tried to be,
let the dinner begin
but
that is all fine now
I am revising my theory
of people
looking for true friendships,
good honest kindness.
Boundary walls and prison fences
crumbled down and fell apart.
The Gothic Chapel
which was forever preaching
‘Doom’ and ‘Gloom’
and its ‘Woe, Woe & Thrice Woe’
took down its dusty old, heavy curtains
and opened up the stained-glass windows
for a Spring-clean jumble sale.
I noticed beautiful, multi-coloured
wild flowers popping up everywhere
in the once shadowy graveyard.
Song birds reappeared
from their long, Winter migration.
The orchards once more became bountiful,
not quite overnight,
yet quick enough for wonderment.
There was nothing for it but to eat fresh fruit,
instead of doubt and humble pie for a change.
I dared look at my own reflection, un-timidly,
and saw that my eyes once more had colour.
The Land’s currency was ‘Smiles’
and no kindness or act of good faith
was ever too much trouble
and always rewarded three-fold.
But, best of all… the Clocks,
returned to a proper, functioning speed, at last.
More at https://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
I went off booze for a little while
Clarity was okay
I prefer boozing though
Not like the old days
When getting drunk was a given
This is more of a social thing
Meet a friend for a few beers at happy hour
Seeing more and more geezers like me there
NYC is like London where the pub is holy
I always preferred my whiskey without mixers
Now I’m starting to merge left
Aging thing?
I don’t know
Thinking retirement in 18 months
My brain is soggy from repetition
Articles say get out early if you can
Tough to pull the trigger on income
That’s why there is the booze factor
To dull down the chronic thoughts of despair
A happy hour is just down the road
Pretty girls and writing poems at the bar
Pen and paper
Who does that anymore?
Talking out loud
This cowboy ain’t dead yet
Still got some fences to mend on the north 40
A cold one waiting in the balance
There
must be an
answer as grand
as her gowns
lonely
attic song
doesn’t want
to come down
though lovely
kissable
one day
a just-so rhyme
might entice
union
until then
only memory
or imagination.
The ground breaks
The black soil
Burying the grass
Like the flip
Of a pancake
The rototiller digs
Shaking my shoulders
Like a 60s dance
The plot having rested
From September
Through the long winter
Holds stubborn
As if to deny my ambition
In my mind
I see hills of tomato plants
Heavy with fruit
The rich red
Announcing their readiness
For salads
For sauces
The perfect addition
To a sandwich
But the time
Between the planting
And the harvesting
Will test my patience
The curse of a man boy
Checking each day
For the progress
The worry
That some rabbit
Will feast
On my future delight
It is a torture
To anticipate
To almost taste
The sweetness
And the slight sour
That comes
With the end of summer
Signal to me that
the hearing did not construct
sign language for your words,
it was no gesture on the part
of a hegemony to offer apparatus.
A walking, talking
entity, a personhood, just like
me, we establish our meaning,
it won’t be held back.
Whether I paint on the wall,
raise a finger in gentle swoop,
or shout from a high place,
A sentence gathers us together,
a chain of syntax.