#410
Under a fading moon, and disappearing stars
drowning in the towering city lights,
we strolled in a changing, beautiful, rooftop garden,
Paraded by the past, weaved by our cassettes,
we felt them,
we were feeling it,
the clouds danced with our conversation
and the city woke, as did we.
#411
Sitting beside his hospital bed
bullshitting, and chatting,
watching tubes of antibiotics
swing from his neck,
toasting to the success of his surgery,
applauding the surgeon’s thoughtfulness
and skill stitching his scar to match his tattoo,
above the heart, over the soul of my friend, the soldier.
i listened to his reluctant woes,
and the sounds of the patient next to him,
to the same cowardice moans and pleas,
that have kept him awake through the night.
Our eyes darted, as another curse escaped,
the smell of fear, the stench of shit,
from an old man whose pride stopped him
from asking for help, rathering to rest
in his own filth, disgraced with a different shame.
And how can i help him,
other than offering an ear?
i feel as helpless as he must,
trapped in his bed,
tethered to his IV,
understanding nothing
as parades of doctors and nurses
rapid fire German excuses,
explaining why his basic comforts
have swung from bad to worse.
i can only sit there, and
wait for an eventual translation,
of a scenario i’ve already read
from the sad subtitles scrolling
across his brilliant blue eyes.
#412
In Toronto i curled next
to the thin white pooch
and listened to Black Star,
left to Montreal where the
Space Dogg-ity crooned to
the Replacements, days later, deep
in Manhattan a brand new
Ziggy Star Pup bounded and played,
the psychic connection questioned
stalling us in the streets,
perhaps that fallen Starman
never really left the planet.
#413
Many times i find myself
indulging in ugly envy,
jealous of those elegant
educated poets. Their words
varnished with references
to the forgotten Gods, heroes,
and muses, draped in lost
precious words,
to rhythms that beat and
bounce across turning page.s
Thats not me though.
Poor form, mismatched styles,
inconstancies, recklessness
to the point i rival Icarcus
if only he set his sights
on a dreary pale grey sky,
that toyed with the idea of
inconvenient rainfall, a
ceiling so visible, so close.
i guess i can take pride that
despite the realities, i’m still
happy to dance across them,
to move, to shake, forever the
only choice.
#414
A long week of scrubs
a blather, a bother,
days, and nights,
visiting, the sterile hospital,
and all of a sudden
the Angel Carla,
brings us bottles,
bubbles, and sweetness,
she sets the fracture,
and changes the pace,
there’s a laugh, a grin,
a life left to taste.
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