
I’m happy as can be
being me
a guy who writes poetry
A wanderer among words
a purveyor of verbosity
I soar into skies of stories
not yet told
in broken sentence safaris
my imagination uncontrolled
-30-
I’m happy as can be
being me
a guy who writes poetry
A wanderer among words
a purveyor of verbosity
I soar into skies of stories
not yet told
in broken sentence safaris
my imagination uncontrolled
-30-
I watched him walk along the shoreline as luminescent waves rolled under the blue moon. The surf broke the silence of the night as it lazily lapped the gleaming beach. He was moving with the brisk wind towards an unknown horizon and seemed to pay me no heed as his cloak and long hair majestically streamed behind him.
I took a long hit off my pipe packed with a ball of opium. When I finally opened my eyes, he was walking towards me and for a moment I thought he was an ancient god with his flowing beard and long shaggy hair catching the moon beams and glowing eerily. But as I watched in wide eyed wonder he stopped, shook his mighty mane from side-to-side and reversed his course. I felt a sense of remorse. Loss. Did I offend him somehow by not standing up?
I had the feeling that I missed an opportunity. That the Beach Walker was going to befriend me and share answers to mysteries that have long befuddled humanity.
I watched his shadow chase him as he moved like a wraith beneath the moonlight. His hair was flowing and glowing. The waves were receding, and sand dollars and other shells were exposed and gleaming under the strange lights emanating from the sky. A stray clap of thunder growled in the distance. My thoughts turned to the pipe in my hand. I lit it. Inhaled. Waited. Time had no meaning. I sought revelations. Visions. The meaning of life. I was lost.
Pulling out the pistol from my jacket pocket I held it up to my head and held it there for what seemed an eternity. My arm gave out and I dropped the .38 Special onto the shifting sand. I cursed my cowardice. I cursed my demons. As I ranted a fog slowly crept along the shoreline then shifted towards me. From its depth the Beach Walker emerged, his wild long hair hanging in tight curls and straddling his broad shoulders. The cloak was gone and all he wore was a dirty white tunic. Somehow his face glowed under the light of the blue moon, and he was wearing a frown. A look of concern. His dark brown eyes bored into my soul, warning me not to take my own life. A voice inside my head said it’s God’s choice when and how you leave this earthly plane.
Startled I jumped up in my narcotic haze and called out to him, who are you? It was too late, however. It seemed like he was floating as he turned around and disappeared in the thick gray mist that now enveloped the whole beach.
When I saw the headlights, I didn’t move despite the fact that they were pointed right at me. It appeared God chose this moment to take my life and I gladly opened my arms wide prepared to be propelled into eternity. The Land Rover roared right by me, spitting up sand and broken shells as it hurtled into the night on some mad mission. I stood there listening to my heartbeat for minutes. Then I could hear the waves again. I suddenly understood that life was a gift and I’d been granted a reprieve for my past misdeeds.
I watched the sunrise with a sense of awe. Picking up the pistol and the pipe I threw them as far as I could into the turbulent surf. As corny as it sounds, it was a new day full of promise.
the end
fame, glory, and power motivate many
while others are content to be ordinary
the case for mediocrity
isn’t always easy to see
how living quietly
makes some happy
living without envy
and fame’s frenzy
can be
a friendly journey
without strife
the rest of your life
***
He rocks back-and-forth on the rickety wicker porch chair. He’s everyman, late in life with wrinkles distorting a once smooth face, and body. His life wasn’t spent seeking redemption in real time. His subconsciousness never gave a hint of being interested in the subject.
Memories did sometimes rudely intrude upon his daily routine and reality. As a combat veteran he was intimately acquainted with death. The sight. The smell. The moment he fired at a human being. The horror.
But he just keeps on rocking in his wicker chair every day, a modern response to Old Man River who just kept rolling on.
He isn’t plagued with regrets on not being “saved” by any religion, or by being led to redemption like a sheep on the way to being sheared.
Freedom is his redemption for being alive and having survived many perilous times in his long life. His arthritis a badge of honor. His physical scars medals earned during a long life of adventures. His silver hair a crown of achievement.
He makes no claims of having redeemed others from sins and stupid moves in their lives. He never wanted to lead others to the top of any proverbial mountain. He’s unaware of ever being anyone’s leading light in life.
He just keeps on rocking in his wicker chair every day, a modern response to Old Man River who just kept rolling on.
the end
life is a three course meal
of baby food
steak and lobster
and mushed food
sprinkled with
a dash of irony
and a touch of salt
some good whiskey
and wine
while you dine
until it’s time
to pay your final bill
when you’ve had your fill
I hated getting up in the morning when I was in school
giving up delicious dreams to attend classes wasn’t cool
when I was on my own and working nearly every day
dragging my body out of bed in the morning wasn’t child’s play
but
now that I’m retired and have no place I have to go
I wake up early to watch the sunrise’s beautiful tableau
in the pantheon of gods there’s two you should know
Echo and Ego
they walk around our world every day
one praising herself and the other echoing away
one generally follows the other’s lead
praising the other’s every deed
they like sports stars and movie stars
and famous writer’s early memoirs
you might be surprised to know
that everyone has an ego
it’s the echo
that determines if fame is to be had
whether it’s good…or whether it’s bad
if you believe in UFO’s and a magic mirror
sign your name right here
if you believe Bigfoot drinks beer
sign your name right here
if you think there’s no pollution in the atmosphere
sign your name right here
if you’re into kinky sex and like to domineer
sign your name right here
if your looking for a long career
sign your name right here
in order to make your wishes crystal clear
sign your name right here
if you enjoy getting attention with a Bronx cheer
sign your name right here
do you have days when things are unclear?
sign your name right here
have you ever thought about being a volunteer?
sign your name right here
what’s in your center?
an enlightening epiphany
or more?
discovering your inner core?
a place to safely explore?
some say
the soul is your center
and gateway
to your spirit
that follows a pathway
up a celestial stairway
to heaven
but I wouldn’t know
I have a wayward soul
that wanders alone
seeking the center
of the universe
and it’s secrets
but
I still wonder why
I can never go home
no matter how hard I try
I was always aware of someone watching me in the family
and it was oddly comforting but sometimes scary
like having The Eye of Horus or The Eye of Ra on me
no matter what I did or how dangerous the activity
That watchful eye followed me over the years
and helped me deal with my fears
sometimes, I look up at the sky
after all these years have gone by
and wonder why
I still believe in a watchful eye?
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