A note from the underground

Hello, solitary one.

I’m a little uncertain
a little diffident
and hesitant
to come a-knocking at your door.

Is it yourself you are content with
for company?
It is, after all, the old reliable.
Do you, perhaps, mistrust the throng,
or will you just not suffer the fools?

The privations of apartness
need happy amelioration at times.
No?
Are you so in the present
because the past is past
and tomorrow knows you not?

You are proud, so proud.
‘Tis not a sin.
A rare bird has few of a feather.

I have heard your voice at night.
It is earnest, intent.
So at odds with the imbecility outside.

Do you like tea?
I would bring the finest from the Orient.
Or, better maybe, wine?
Chablis or Chardonnay in a pop bottle.
A bit of camembert, a crusty loaf.

And, if you dare,
a small canvas and pastels
I will paint you
While you read me your dreams.

I will sense if I impose.
Hold your sting.
I will go quietly,
But not without regret.

 

You who

You

who walks in grace
flashes the smile
the covert glance
from knowing eyes

who knows me not
but knows me all

You

who have pinned me
under glass
in a frame
a collected butterfly
with hidden colors
for your eyes only

You

have no need to flaunt
you move in rarefied air
but not over proudly
to speak to you is to speak to the earth
you are an attainable treasure
from the box of Pandora
born of the genus angelic.

Grateful for the pain

dear one

thank you for this morning’s pain
I shall not make a grumble
I may never feel this good again
so now i will be humble

the only things that hampered me
were an aching back and head
so i feel as though you pampered me
and let me out of bed

gone the crushing malady
that formulates its lies
convincing with finality
that never lets us rise

gone the ringing in my ears
the itching and the twitch
the cornucopia of fears
and my side’s annoying stitch

i feel as though the sixteen tons
have suddenly been lifted
and I’m among the lucky ones
whose miracle’s been gifted.

One Day

one day i will pay for this
for this warm bed with a snowstorm outside
for the surety of the next meal
for the mastery of my own castle
for my treasured seclusion
for to sleep without being awakened
for the morning coffee and the leisure to read
for the free government money
for the free care of my health
for the freedom to go where i will
and the expectation that all of this is my due.

i think- have i not already paid?
through a lifetime of toil, loss, emptiness?

yes.
but.
there are the Haves and the Have Nots.
we wonder at the reasons for wars and revolutions
when there are those who have none of of the things i have
and see no hope
and there are those who have all of my things and want more

one day, the have nots will come

the meek shall inherit the earth.

If I could have these, made of glass please

An onion made of glass
A nun, in habit, toddlers tugging at her skirts
A jar, by a door
Stockings with a run in them
An English garden
A balalaika
A colourful room
Cellophane flowers
Henry the Horse
A parking meter
A weeping guitar
A bird with a broken wing
A big brown bag of money
A daisy chain
A moon dog
A soap impression
A lizard on a windowpane
A shady tree
A jack knife, in your sweaty hands
A twenty carat golden ring
A choking smoker
Sir Walter Raleigh
A pool of tears,
A tie with mirrors
A hammer, made of silver
A garden, under the sea

These would do nicely for a start, you see.  I promise to dust them, yes I do.