#450
On more occasions
than i care to admit,
i rather prefer
the titles of
songs, poems, and stories
more than the words
that bulk the pieces themselves,
how tragic, how criminal,
that another beautiful face
frames an empty head.
#451
Where do i get off,
complaining,
stuck on an island
inside a small boat
with a warm Frenchman
speaking my favourite language
between sips of sweet white wine,
sugary flan, buttery quiche,
the joy of journeys,
a praise for detours.
#452
What a strange turn
on the longest day,
to end up hitching a
tour bus, joining the circus
after a stormy Norwegian night,
in an old fortress, watching Black Sabbath
eating veggie burgers
playing basketball,
getting hammered
with three old friends
and three new ones,
stretching from
Vancouver, London, to Santiago,
waking in Copenhagen
riding rollercoasters
hanging with prize winning photographers
it was the summer
the only blues were the skies.
#453
When you sleep on the bottom,
and slide through the cracks,
uncomfortable realities
become perfect pillows.
#454
i walked down
the cobbled crowded
street, my ears stuffed
with awful Portuguese,
eyes spooning extra spoonfuls
of the gorgeous Portuguese,
i watched the waves off the tiles
and heard the sounds of the Atlantic
echo from the beaches
of old Copacabana,
my flashbacks were as real
as every cloud above
and i relished every second
as my past found the present.
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