I probably will not ever return
to the place where five rivers meet
and that may mean I will not see your face
again, other than through the odd text,
or family updated picture, or should you travel
north to see me; when your life is complex
and comfortable, why would you waste time
leaving the valley in which we once roamed.
The rivers roll on with majesty
and I have sat by many a bank,
the tumble down grass, tumbled down upon
The love inside will always burn brightly
even for the weed that has replaced the blooming flower
as it creeps up against the wall tightly,
for even the sickly green of knot weed has illuminating power.
The adoration of things turned sour,
the memory of the good that came before,
that hide in reflection as they cower
before the boom and bust of relationship law.
Yet I hold the memory of you dearly,
I cradle it like a child, in innocent wonder
and whisper, cajole it to stay alive, to breathe.
The circus is in town.
The ring leaders
for the next ten months
will provide the illusion that a two
way ring can bring the hero
of the hour, the usual suspect
who can reach the converted
and pull off cunning stunts
in the swinging trapeze
but to whom over thirty states
will always suggest that their clown
is always the guy they choose.
From Iowa to Texas to New York,
the circus only exists because
the land is so vast and the land is arid
I have had bad days, when my words
have been misinterpreted, my actions
mistaken, my shame and hatred
of my own self carried around for ever
after, pinned to my chest
like a gleaming medal sparkling
on parade, polished with pride
by some other shmuck in my skin
and specially made
for the stupid, crass,
ignorant and argumentatively
stubborn. I have been all that at times.
I have kicked downwards when pain
was bad but I have also kicked upwards
when the ache threatened to send me over,
The America I remember has been stolen,
it doesn’t seem to be the way
it was when I first laid
eyes on the French mistress
holding a light to the world’s
repossessed and charmed poetry fanatic.
The bars look uncomfortable now
and not welcoming to the stranger
at the door, clad in clothes
of home but willing to
change, to leave the will behind
and play the game, until it suits
to change the rules, one message at a time.
The America I loved, still love, for passion
I let time run down on the day,
for the Moon requires
a period of mournful solace
at the passing of the ignorant Sun.
Shrouded in black, making sad overtures
to the recently deceased
and wringing hands in public,
the Moon acts accordingly
in the night time sky
as it basks it relative heartache
and symbolic woe, the stars
unaware of how glad the Moon
is to see the back of the Sun.
The night claims the power
over tide and dominates
Tell me your tale
of what it meant to venture
out in the dark
and hang with the kids who smoked
and looked cool as the whisper of ash
mixed freely
in the stilted and peach like air
and then glided towards
the beckoning heavens
as your eyes naturally found the excuse
to drift slowly downwards
and look at the black tram seam
that ran from the top of their
unpolished and ungainly shoes
to the bottom of the pencil
lined grey skirt,
Steady,
breathe deeply,
hold your nerve
and dive right in…
For whilst it was the most ungainly
entry into the wet,
shivering warmth,
I at least gave it a go
and the laughter of two
hundred, the attempt of early
humiliation was nothing, for
only having learned to swim
at ten, twenty lengths for a charity
later, diving in the deep end
held no fear and whilst failure
was the option grasped,
scoring one
point for the class,
out of sympathy,
The crack is always there,
no matter how busy I keep myself,
the yawn in the fabric
of the walls leers at me,
sneers with contempt;
it has no need to beckon me closer
for it knows I will eventually succumb
because I am always curious
of just how dark the scene is.
I could scream in the darkness
for no one truly hears
above the muffled, stifled gag
as the words catch me
in the back of the throat,
so instead I hide myself away,
I am afraid,
not of life or of opening
myself up, perhaps even to ridicule,
God knows I’ve experienced
enough of that, more than I care for,
probably less than I deserve;
I’m not scared of that for
if you’re not terrified of death
how can you truly feel alive?
I am troubled,
by all that I am,
the insanity in the letters,
the voices whispering gently
that this word not that word,
not any word
but them all, is to be captured,