he was
a part-time
philosopher
and full-time drunk
dispensing
sage advice
prophecies
and
profanity
with the same
propensity
asking
me
on more than
one occasion
while
carefully
balancing
his
brown paper bag
if it’s
true
that museums
have to return
stolen antiquities
to
indigenous peoples
how come
the
gold
ain’t returned
by the
church
another soul
another language
the same human misery
a darkened doorway
gilded with childish dreams
not of gold
but of a silver lining
now tarnished
by the acidic reality
that death is more
than the grave
it is sitting on a street corner
begging to breathe hope’s vapor
smoking discarded butts of existence
becoming a belligerent drunk
screaming at what fate has given
cursing death
for its
late arrival
This poem was inspired by a post by my friend Cindy (http://theonlycin.wordpress.com/2010/8/15/repost-her-name-is-monica/) I was a bit tearful when I finished reading her post and knew that I could not write anything right away…but wanted to release some of the emotions…so here it is …a mental release so that I can sleep tonight. Please visit Cindy’s site and see the inspiration for this poem.
Read Between the Minds 