when I was a young man I had horses
once was a blind appaloosa
twice was his pony
each was a token of my forgiveness
of a life spent in disregard
I read them Old Angel Midnight
and of the trifecta’s in the south
and they spoke of the hunger of the north
we laid our heads down upon the stones
and kept each other warm
now my life has turned; not graver nor grayer
but the youth, that was of my thirties
has cast its eyes to other pastures
studies that were written down
are not written in vain
4/19/2009
from of old men and of the sea
© 2009 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
Marina
I made this, I have forgotten
And remember.
The rigging weak and the canvas rotten
Between one June and another September
- Marina T.S. Eliot
old poems old songs old seams
that button, fray and feed the laced
something sublime comes my way
tobacco stained shirt collars and forced
under star light; taken for photographs
in the state of transcendence
the moon is a sister
and the earth some mother
I wait for the thunder
I found me a quote; that I wrote down
almost 22 years to date; unconditional
full of sincerity, walking the sidewalk
for the full reposit and sensation of things
and I remember the night; it was the café days,
you said it as a matter of fact,
and we walked to the park and set in motion
the creed that we were to live by
restlessness and truth; the stories of our lives
were to be filled in this idealism
tonight I have read so many poems, Scott, Parker,
Eliot, Robinson and me
but in that book of old romantics I stopped
dead in my tracts not only because but because
it is one forty five in the morning; it is muggy,
it just feels like the old days I haven’t stayed up late to
write me a poem in years
it said, ‘here take this; but remember I never gave you anything’
what would we say not to that but in our stalemates our check mates
our careers that resemble the Book of Job or even Enoch
all I ever wanted then is neatly stacked and hidden away
as childhood mementos frozen misspelled hastily composed
under coffee dimmed lighting
its worth in remembering is the deed unto itself
this world vs that world; youth and enthusiasm and old age
and treachery what wisdom have we forsaken, taken
and refused, refuted or relinquished since the dawn
of those days curled instead of elongated continuum
it all seems so different and it still feels the same
yet tonight I wish; I could breathe deeper and
stay up longer reach further and dream higher
put this into words more perfectly
April 26, 2009
from of old men and of the sea
© 2009 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
And remember.
The rigging weak and the canvas rotten
Between one June and another September
- Marina T.S. Eliot
old poems old songs old seams
that button, fray and feed the laced
something sublime comes my way
tobacco stained shirt collars and forced
under star light; taken for photographs
in the state of transcendence
the moon is a sister
and the earth some mother
I wait for the thunder
I found me a quote; that I wrote down
almost 22 years to date; unconditional
full of sincerity, walking the sidewalk
for the full reposit and sensation of things
and I remember the night; it was the café days,
you said it as a matter of fact,
and we walked to the park and set in motion
the creed that we were to live by
restlessness and truth; the stories of our lives
were to be filled in this idealism
tonight I have read so many poems, Scott, Parker,
Eliot, Robinson and me
but in that book of old romantics I stopped
dead in my tracts not only because but because
it is one forty five in the morning; it is muggy,
it just feels like the old days I haven’t stayed up late to
write me a poem in years
it said, ‘here take this; but remember I never gave you anything’
what would we say not to that but in our stalemates our check mates
our careers that resemble the Book of Job or even Enoch
all I ever wanted then is neatly stacked and hidden away
as childhood mementos frozen misspelled hastily composed
under coffee dimmed lighting
its worth in remembering is the deed unto itself
this world vs that world; youth and enthusiasm and old age
and treachery what wisdom have we forsaken, taken
and refused, refuted or relinquished since the dawn
of those days curled instead of elongated continuum
it all seems so different and it still feels the same
yet tonight I wish; I could breathe deeper and
stay up longer reach further and dream higher
put this into words more perfectly
April 26, 2009
from of old men and of the sea
© 2009 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
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