Sometimes I wonder, a poem made up from titles of other poems.
I wrote the below poem out of confusion for why was I writing poetry, it contains around 70 titles of poems I had written in an 18 month period. The poem is not meant to make sense, but an attempt to reconcile why I felt lost at the time when I looked back at the words that found their own worlds in different shapes and places.
Short on time
My thoughts lay rusted on the ground,
Frozen, stuck in time, will they make it to paper.
Maybe a printer’s press will find it too dull,
Or too thick to wade through.
Boring it might be, they all seem to look the same,
Not an original thought amongst them,
Crazy ideas, like vinegar and sweets.
Might it be possible to get beyond the false walls of paradise?
I feel so lost, between paper boats and dusted dreams.
The sounds of a troubadour may be better fitting than such lead-weighted words.
I dwell with the rivers and forests, the places I grew up with, where rain was mostly dust,
But for the lunar thoughts about pineapple sage, mint and the late evening shade.
One might think I have lost all senses, joined some parrot’s pavilion, that might be one last chance,
Not a case of wet ‘n’ dry, except when contemplating forests green or varied friends, such winter winds,
With no sign of cardinal direction, I am as lost as a village here moving too slow,
Sounds like a Friday night, but who in their right mind would put a beach and the snow together?
Probably someone lost and in the thick of it. Thick of what? you ask,
Of nothing else, but the tall grasses, not really,
Though best of luck with that, for the colour holds a bounty upon your head,
There is no common ground, or a truth stretched place for acronyms,
Should I rush to write some more, not even for the price of one desert night?
After all, I have lived in dirty little streets, thinking I can dream of rain,
As much as the dust and seeds are blown in the wind,
To be here, to be just passing time, for freedom thinks she lives.
Maybe I should just go out to the garden patch, to ponder friendship and but wait for one more solstice,
The only tender moment, though born in pain, open poems and old friends, I didn’t get to go back,
To but just a walk with laughter about to burst, ‘tis this burnt world lost again today,
And to pause for just another moment, in some season where the music thinks to come to life.
Old roads, poetic sails, turn here, for they’ll soon be handing out the pears, .
Maybe it is time for revolution, but not to wander in the tropics lost.
What’s left to share, other than that she rocks, even on the slow days?
Here’s a chance, I should perhaps just loose the trees and the seasons,
They say time is solid, but maybe they meant thought.
Oh, give me sunshine, synergy and a caper – now that might make for art.
Thinking, should I just go and find a carnival? It has to be better than under the green or blue,
Ha! The roof above, like underwater sunshine, or could walking and just sprouting words hold something else?
Here I am, back again, laughing at two ghosts, three goats, and a thane.
Maybe I should just go hide in a swamp; summer wine will not afflict me there,
Sitting on the floor now, thinking, one tree hills, yep, just another survey for some once past town.
Well it’s not midnight yet, and photos leave some marks, in history I mean,
Not the stereotypical kind, more another place, as far from a highway as you can get,
No swamp trees this time, more a free window and a chance to breathe,
Because gravity will leave you with incomplete ideas, the black powder plots with horses of the night,
So for now I will here settle, for el camino del la roca, and a few other stories to yarn about before some new year’s dusk.