But the Cowboys shared song
And the Wrestlers argued
But sat in Lotus pose
For Buddha’s great gong
And the Dope Smokers relaxed
In a cloudy haze
Frozen by mysteries
No Mortal Man could comprehend
And Ballerinas spun
Till the Moon sang to the Sun
Letting tears fall
From the closing blinds
And Jugglers threw balls
Higher than before
Not missing a beat
Not dropping the heat
And Snowmen melted
Because Snowwomen were hot
Like perrywinkle tea
And Bus Drivers slowed down
For the yellow crossing sign
Said Children
And the Taxi Drivers sped up
Because their Patrons
Demanded it
And the Stars sang goodnight
In their twinkling light
As the Moon crept along
With the sound of great gong.
Tag: patron
Ode To My Favourite Pen (day 3067)
I found you down a darkened road
Construction and rainy smells
Inside an old historic building
In to what felt like a historic store.
The walls were lined
With countless pens
And items supporting pens,
All illuminated so eloquently
Showcasing the finest specimens
Any penman could want.
In here I walked back and forth,
And fellow patrons wandered deep in thought,
Where finally in the deepest corner
I found you resting on a stand
Not a fingerprint laid your barrel.
And now so many years have passed
Yet not once have you let me down
Though the world we’ve traveled by foot
No wear shows upon your barrel,
Your nib a perfect flow.
And your mark has been inscribed
On countless pads sent afar
With, what I believe, quite an exquisite touch
Unique to me, my penman mark
You so critically help me lay.
I look and hold you every day,
Proud to know you by feel and weight
To have you by my side,
And to know that when I need you most
You’ll be right where I lay you down
Ready with your perfect balance
Upon paper we do play.
Beirut (day 2721)
Every time I hear of the city Beirut
I dream of what dreams are made of
There are city lights that wave at me
With a luminosity that cuts through my being
Little chairs with patrons chilling
In a modality unknown to me
But harming with smiles
That feel half drunk and half alive.
My feet rattle off ancient cobblestones
On the better walks of town
But I find the dead alleys
And imagine how many eyes are watching me.
I have companions here
Who sing with instruments only found
Along this edge of the world
And in Gypsy caravans roaming the deadlands.
My lover sleeps with the curtains open
And silk pyjamas that are usually draped
Upon the wooden chair that’s older than I
She burns a scent I can only find here
With old books I cannot read
But admire the covers and the ghosts within
She kisses with a heavy lip
And smiles with a curious snarl
That keeps me here dreaming.
Love For Me (day 2430)
Love for me I cannot see
Amidst a jungle of tropics
– Canopy my heart burgeons –
Letter from an envelope
Stamped, embossed and sealed secure.
Patron saint tickling me
(Rummage in a broken bag
A morsel once saved: depart)
Planning with another name –
Sunlight reaching out.
Most Likely Chance (day 1922)
Who’s got that hat on the floor?
Someone’s burning at the other end
Smoke trails and it’s begun
For the last of the cobblestones have shattered
Into night’s mystery, coo-coo, coo-coo.
Though one long sidewalk dance
Let it be called a clean romance
Cigarette’s burning down some more
Her eyes still singing forever in implore.
Judged like the colour of pure milk
A canvas rolled into the corners ilk
While every patron danced around the room,
Spilled wine and tossed off shoes
And pearls upon every hearted romance,
As art, given at most likely chance.
Counting (day 1650)
From my angle I wasn’t the nerd,
I had the best cold coffee
Settling in the bottom of my to-stay mug,
Rattling around the inside
Of my drastically hungry belly.
I had too many ideas to be passive
And in discourse with unfriendly patrons.
Why are you smiling at me, saying hello?
I’m on the other side of the room.
Can’t you see my furrow, blinded by dull lights?
Perhaps I’m the unfriendly one.
From my angle, I was the mission.
I had written the outline and
Focus was my middle name.
The timer was ticking and
I wasn’t wasting motivation
On Whiskey River in the Jar’O.
I had water to accompany the drip.
Keep the lights low and let
This chaotic music recklessly skip
Into oblivion my cycling mind
Which cannot refuse to be free.
From my angle I had a perfect view
Of both the flighty pixie,
Distracted with a proper stein,
And the siren gently calling my name.
I knew her, of course,
One of the few to break this furrow
And cause me to tarry by name.
Thus, I aggressively gather my activist heart
And settle my score with a battling pickaxe
And two shiny 2013 quarters
That rattle over the buzz and out the door.
Stallion (day 1585)
Poised like a stallion
– Boy can you call out? –
Levels of a whisper
Took the couple by surprise.
– Have you paid off your tariff? –
And the doors swung fully open
Jammed with eager patrons
– Sing for me heady –
Galloping in bliss feeling
Take a moment, laughter
Lift a delicate feather
And if you find a guy
– a warm and ragged traveler –
Calling out your name
In gay and playful manner
– Pray, no need to shutter –
Dig in deeper spurring
Leave your stallion wilder.
The Creep (day 1226)
I am the creep
Lurching in your dreams
Lying around to wait
Out untimely interruptions.
I am the Patron Saint
Leaving smear marks on the wall.
Godly is mistaken
Underneath forgotten layers.
Hipsters Meatloaf (day 1044)
There’s sun here,
Beaming into my leftover sex eyes.
Wet ground pushing through
My grandmothers heirloom blanket
Floral – diamonds for my pleasure,
Tranquil.
A lover’s legs wrap beyond consciousness,
Creasing my hunger
And playing games with children
Learning how to catch Frisbees,
And hipsters bikes
– Bloody impracticable bikes –
Making criss-crossing lines
Across freshly sprouted spring.
I’m drinking a wild blend of red
Eying patrons eying me…
I’m not annoyed with screaming children,
Just wondering how fun their game really is;
How long fun lasts
Before someones mother has had enough,
Started worrying about what types of spices
To leave out of tonight’s meatloaf
Vegetarian meatloaf,
Hipsters meatloaf.
Dram of Poison (day 994)
A needle digs deeper guiding the well worn thimble on
Scaring dogs, singing and howling like Big Momma John
Like she’s snaking about a pale spotlight covered in sequins
Singing the whole time about a blue moon kissing her empty bottle
And filling each patron of the evening with wonderment
A quiet lady, sitting idle at the bar dressed only in pink
Clinks cold bricks slowly about the smoothed edges of her glass
Pulling at her soul for every single bit of truth she has
With high hopes that this very night will reveal all that could ever be
And harness her abandon like the piano pullin’ Big Momma John in
A mood envelops the patrons, sensually gliding from table to table
Touching far reaching itches only elation and jubilation can satisfy
Like the silver lining on a red velvet goblet
Deadly for all those unaccustomed to these desires
And final, like large Gothic keys hung around the undertakers neck