Part ten
Slowly succumbing to a shift of mindthe next hot, windless day, still July,
I watch decay and island seclusion
wash over the parched, desolate grass,
reflecting absolute void to blue merciless sky.
It is more than half a century ago
the little big man ricocheted like a pinball
all across America in anguish
with spells of profound, untainted spirit
unlocking the hear, hear.
Although a beacon in every dim gin joint,
he was often but disaster in "refined" company,
and still he never lost his itinerary.
Blossoming young women, undergraduates,
flocked at first, before the game of longing
rode on seven wild horses
to yet another magnificent future, albeit crude
in its superficial wrapping.
Clean and yearning, open and new,
they were all that he needed to feed
the bleeding wound of yearning.
So I die to the pace of turning pages
that I know will never give me
what I and this wretched world really need,
but it is always a beginning.
Poetry by Bob
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Written on 2010-04-03 at 17:08
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