#500
Dollars short,
minutes before
the last bus left,
a drunk gave
what he had
without a thought,
no time to lose,
quick seconds of
gratitude before
tearing off after
a red eye flight,
i’ll pay it forward,
to another, hopeless
and lost,
thank you again.
#501
How incredible to observe
someone else’s intuition
steer us in the right
direction,
How astounding to walk
underneath a rising
gold, grateful moon.
We wandered the old
cobbled city streets,
back and forth between restaurants,
tired children in hand,
under the windows of choirs
and teachers teaching
classic folk singers,
until, around a corner
we found Conception,
a name, a message,
shared with a volcano
i had called home,
the restaurant, a beacon,
making modern fusion tapas
in a room that could’ve been
curated by my mother,
the table a pillow
for the sleepy kids,
delicious treats, we ate within the music,
a perfect playlist,
an old waitress painted in
gorgeous water colour tattoos,
and there i sat, enveloped in the hue,
watching the wee ones curious playing,
tasting, hating, tasting, pondering,
trying each dish until the flavours landed,
and grins turned to greed,
it makes it harder to say goodbye
to leave when they’re true,
harder to say goodbye when they hold
a strong love for you,
they really took me under,
as we spilled into the streets
and we returned under the stars,
for another picon and
night speech, and i went to
my cabin where i couldn’t
find a dream, though,
i suppose i was already
living in one.
#502
Remember where you came from
that city’s rot and stink,
don’t doubt-
this car won’t roll
further forever,
recall your mother breathing,
whispering heartfelt goodnights,
under lullabies, gentle arms rock,
in clubs, dreamy feet tap,
in the morning is where you’ll find me,
graffiting diary pages,
scrawling poems,
oh hold my hand real tight,
theres so much left unexplored.
#503
Maybe it was the caffeine
maybe it was the beer,
it could be the music
that’s roaring in my ear,
i felt it in the sunshine
i feel it pounding still
that overwhelming feeling
the mercy of the How’s will
i think i made a decision
i don’t doubt that it’s right
i suppose i’ll rage the hours
fore in the morning i take flight.
#504
Where does it go?
That old clock face
lies to us blankly
twisting his ticks
pretending our movements
are anything but
constant and circular,
we can feel the truth
the sickening quick pull,
currents grip us under
into a galloping cosmic whirlpool.
Thanks for joining! Find poems through out the week on my instagram @monsieurwrite
Don’t forget to check out the poems being recited on The Write Stuff podcast!
Take care, call your family, tell them you love them.
wazoo!
-Mr. Write