I have always deeply admired the man who I speak of in this slammed poem.
|Did you know when you|
penned The Soup And The Clouds,
that I would fall head-over-heels
for a man in another century?
Prose. The Beauty of Poetry.
Counting crows from the eyes of a man
with an effervescence that lingers
in a smile behind the fog of
street lamps, vagrants, and alleyways
laying drunkards down, I can but be
naive nursing love for you
at an old age.
Today, I have five bee stings from
"mowing the hedges", as they innocently
swarmed about me, I cried "shit".
Later, I dreamed a summer lullaby I
caught from you, such a long-distance
runner to dream golden slumber with.
If you have already chosen your "Venus"
then, let me lie down behind the bushes,
egged on with a chance to see a kiss in
mid-air, sighing at your gratitude
The alchemy of your music is crammed
with politics. Oh, that I dare pick
a passage to drop a few tears upon?
Many have written poems, but have they
withstood the test of time by coming
into many hands,
dusty as a star,
fixing folly with dusk and a rolltop
desk thick with notes for other women
to breathe first light with?
Send me to the moon, Charles. Let me
smile at your genius awhile.
I could never quite catch your steps
ahead of me, too fast
too beautiful to call mine.
Grease lightning with the words
of memories' flowers, let me fold you
softly over, biting my lip, knowing you
have reached the serenity one so often