Some Quiet Saloon

To John, with love and squalor -

I am not earth, or nebulous. I have conceptions.

What I am blind to, I forbid, later on.

Not as it looks, suffocated by indifference or love.

She was cruel, only once -

The fist of a caring poet, or maybe a slave, circular.

Hardly ever now I digress to here. It is an opposite door,

Smoke tinged. I ignored his appeal, played low.

I say out loud, it is not part of me. It is static.

Drum skin faces and sunlight bring us close, sometimes.

 

Tomorrow he will be a desert. A mirage crippled tall.

Closed eyes do not pressure me to be who I am not.

He remains still, looks away from the truth, to nightlights, to stars.

I sense his face, and keep it without faith.

He gives me no smile and his feet are bound.

Somehow just there, seeming not important, as such. He did not stay.

Nights, it is those words that replace the quiet.

Outside of him is a young boy breathing above the earth,

Outside of him an old man gallops away -

Like a glorious buffalo.

 

 

Reviews

[Ruth]

For every line, no - every word and thought, you blow me away - I miss you around here, you are truly a favourite writer of mine and this is sensational. I find myself lingering within your visions and thoughts, vibrantly so! It is like opening doorways to the mind, reading you :) x

[Rosalind Gale]

Thank you so much Poppy. I hope you are good, I am so sorry I have not been read much of late, I miss my girls on here. I cherish your reviews, truly. Much love -
Rosalind
-xx-

[Ruth]

My pleasure hon, and no worries, life happens lol x

[Corset]

April is the killing month, for lies and for truth, for friends or for lovers that never were nor will be parents of a swaddling babe, he was a man, frightened of living, cause living is so damn hard, but he would die for a friend metaphorically, leave syrup for the next butter lover, he was brilliance unassuming,
I will never believe he is evil, only afraid that heaven might not have doors that he could open with his mind. I am glad to see your voice has returned, a phenomenal poetic mind is a terrible thing to waste.

[Coyote Poetry]

I enjoyed the poem. My kind of poetry. The journey and a story.
"He remains still, looks away from the truth, to nightlights, to stars.
I sense his face, and keep it without faith."
The above line is very good. Thank you for the excellent poetry.
Coyote