Something written on the fly. Fell off the top of my head. Nothing to get excited about.
Sometimes I feel like the things that matter most are out of reach
I see them in my mind
I see them in my dreams,
but always too far from me
with no desire to speak
How did it come to be that in 2017 a poem written in 1935 can ring so true?
I’ve got a thousand things to say. Unfortunately,
I’m down to a few hundred words with which to say them.
So let my silence be testimony of the deficit,
but on this you can bet
I’m not finished speaking yet.
Old Men And Root Beer
he sits at his typewriter getting drunk off old root beer and writes poems about old men getting drunk on root beer and writing poems.
he writes about lost loves and sail boats and other places that people go to find dreams.
he writes about laughter and puppies full of glee with bow tied ribbons for collars about their necks.
he writes for the lovers and romantics in life. he writes for the dreamers on cold lonely nights.
he writes with great passion and with bold daring strokes. he’d be a great painter with this word as his brush.
the picture could be delicate with just a small word or two or full of life with vibrant colored phrases that dazzle the mind’s eye.
he writes from airplanes and from bus stop benches looking ever so busy with paper and pen.
he writes of the faces behind ball park fences and the hours that pass by with expectant father’s paces.
he writes about wars in our back yards or in far away places liking their pain and destruction to a counter evolution.
he writes for the leaders and builders for the future hoping his insight will inspire just a small spot of wisdom.
he writes through the storms, earthquakes and fires. he writes about the tears and the sadness and sorrow.
he writes about the joy in that new baby sound. another life coming to freshen the land.
he writes about life or maybe it’s death. anyway he writes from the places most people forget.
he writes of the black. he writes of the white. he writes of the in between and outside and in.
stories of adventure come from his pen. as do fables of love with their fairy tale ends.
he writes what we think and the things that we dream. he uses his imagination to define these things.
his words don’t always appear. his works not always read.
maybe it would be better if he sang them instead.
but he writes and he writes still drunk on old root beer the way old men do when they’re drunk on old root beer.
Somehow I sit here thinking of those things
Things that were once you and me
Things that gave me hope
Things that made me try
Things that helped me cope
Things that made me cry
Now those things are gone
Lost with passion to love’s
Calling for the mystery in the things that I know not
I continue my search for peace
For peace in things that stay or
Peace in things that don’t forget
For peace in things that hold me dear or
Peace in things I found in you
Never failing my sophisticated need
I cry for these things hearing
The sorrow of my song
For I am of little things
Not of things great
They cheat me
They nurse me but
They healeth me not
Caring not for my salvation
Or my industry in life
So I am here today
Today is where I’ll be
For in this I have nothing
In this I am lost
Coming through the mountainside
Of the matters in my life
I am storied
I am fabled
I am here…. alone
Still I’ll go on
Still I’ll be the same
Memories of things will be
The honor of things you brought to me
Yet things are all that’s given
When things are all one has
Still it’s these things I can’t carry
Down life’s uncharted path
For it’s true, you see, things…..
Get in the way