. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

That Place We Used To Go

Those fond memories and lost loves of times bygone and distant, faded moments on precipices of the mind, inlaid within the soul - boat times and all times not meant to be forgotten, nor taken back, but made into fire and cooled into stone - the even fonder foundations of great poetry. Great to someone.

Beyond the Northwoods Waterfall I met Delilah
wearing a boy's tuxedo vest and
smoking a homegrown cigarette that smelled of Northern California.

She screamed and came and went
and I begged her to slow down because
I wanted to taste her peace,
that part of her you couldn't see.

The splash of the falls followed us home like a lost puppy
and we remained wet from there on after.
I was a shipwreck and she was a hurricane,
the damage had already been done,
her winds of fortunate destruction couldn't
topple what had already fallen,
but there was still a very real danger of drowning.

So I danced politely in her presence on
the ashes that fell from her lips,
the aftermath of something that resembled volcanic love,
that reminded me of rooms empty without her,
only a suede vest,
the memory of a full suit, a school dance,
before the Northwoods Waterfall dried up.


No comments:

Post a Comment