"He who wanders is not always lost"

In memory of Mumbling Max

Speaking in staccato crumbles
that fell from his mouth unvarnished and plain,
Mumbling Max told rambling stories
wrapped in tissued memories .

Using words he'd just invented
he spun them like a centrifuge
in seamless dervish repetition
hoping to find that pearl of truth

That conjured up names once remembered
and places that perhaps he'd been
He raised his warm beer to salute me
and shook my hand until it hurt.

Poetry by Hans Bump
Read 712 times
Written on 2011-07-22 at 05:42

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text

F.i.in.e Moods The PoetBay support member heart!
Oh, I can visualize Max so clearly! Your descriptions are rich and vibrant which make for a full portrait of who this person is. They also call to mind a few individuals I've met in my life who would fit them. This is lovely writing and it creates a strong impression which will last beyond this page! Thoroughly enjoyed, thanks.

Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Wow! What a fine poem, Hans, a simple story told with very well chosen, very interesting words, carried forward with a great melody.

I have known a few Max's over the years. I couldn't have described them nearly this well though. This is an unusually astute characterization.
Thanks Hans.

This is I think, my favourite of yours, excellent phrases, "staccato crumbles," "wrapped in tissue memories." We have all probably known sonmeone like this, but if we didn't you have made us feel like we did!

Your originality always amazes.