Hemingway whiskey..

Hemingway whiskey..

( April is poetry month. Poem number eighteen.)

Old man wrote into his journal,

My secrets, my sins, my indiscreet deeds.

Will never be written or spoken aloud.

They would die with him.

He told the young people,

keep your secrets.

People are not kind.

2- He told the young woman. Hello my sad face new friend.

Life can not be kind and sometime.

We need the Hemingway whiskey.

Allow the memories to be watered down with the strong whiskey and

we must hope. Tomorrow shall be kinder.

We can’t consecrate a life with old sin, bad memories.

We must tell yesterday to go to hell,

create a better day, maybe a better life?

She was Texas born and her eyes. Filled with anger and she told him.

You damn tavern Hemingway’s believe life is fixed by drinking,

dancing and laughter. Sometimes they cannot.

He told her. Dear Helen. My sins are great. I lived a soldier life.

Drank, sought wars and wanted new places and new places.

I wanted to test life and I learned. We will find our ugly place and

we must seek peace somehow.

She saw his eyes and she asked him. Can all sins and mistakes be forgotten?

He smiled and he told her. Good friends, family and kind people.

They will accept us and we must bury the bad deep and sin in a Irish grave.

She laughed for the first time and she asked him. Johnnie. Please.

Let’s dance tonight, let’s talk some more.

Maybe we can find the Austin river and wait for the morning sun.

I need a kind voice. He told her. Okay.

Coyote

Author's Note

Thank you for reading.

Reviews

[Desert Knave]

A thought-provoking poem, especially for one like myself who also uses the whiskey to smooth over the edges. ~Jim

[Coyote Poetry]

My grandfather who lived 95 year. Every night at 8 pm. A shot of whiskey. Bacon and eggs in the morning. Thank you for reading and the comment.

[Relic]

Your poems are always written with a touch of wisdom and realness, Coyote. I always wonder if these are real stories or made up from elements of your past.

Well done.

[Coyote Poetry]

I was the Austin Tavern poet for seven years. The taverns is where we can find the saddest stories if we listen. Thank you my friend for reading and the comment.