the loneliness of the long-distance poet

since my last stroke
i feel my way through the swirling mists of memory
and cracked mirror images

i sit here on the hard wooden bench
in a unforgiving swedish harbour town
homeless and without possessions
watching the sail boats

in my youth I wandered
far and wide and clear eyed
i studied rhetoric and sinned
(i dreamed i saw st:augustine)

now my desperation has been worn away by time
like the wounding shards of broken bottles
buried in the sand of tourist abscessed beaches

but the sun shines even on the self-absorbed
with their leather jackets and broken genes

salty tears tumble down my sagging cheeks
as i feed mutated dinosaurs with pizza pie-crust

Poetry by Wumbulu
Read 558 times
Written on 2012-06-29 at 14:56

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A place and a sensibility I relate to, both physically and spiritually. Brings to mind Otis Redding's song "Sitting On The Dock Of The Bay" . . .

Sittin' in the mornin' sun
I'll be sittin' when the evenin' come
Watching the ships roll in
And then I watch 'em roll away . . .

Having come a long way and realizing you haven't really arrived anywhere, and you're in this, whatever this is, alone.

A fine write JK, one I will come back to from time to time to remind me I'm not alone.