My hidden muse,
My sodden sun,
Friend to outcasts,
Tripper of lounge music,
We welcome you.
That space of twilight,
That hour between,
Peach and palmetto
Lisping in the dusk.
This blue chip of loss,
Such passionate warfare,
I pale next to its preponderance.
Light years lying low in the lowlands.
A flit of light on the screen,
The first firefly this hot and lonely season,
Self imposed by the Constable of sonnets,
A priest of Psalms for your rainy day.
I walk barefoot to the swings,
Drink beneath the cool, wet grass,
As the moon rises, sluicing to clouds
In the last, pink vista of sun,
Looking for the last edges of Americana,
Dying in the grass.
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Author:
TS James (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: February 25th, 2022 03:59
- Comment from author about the poem: I wrote this poem when I lived in a beautiful apartment complex, it's true, I would walk barefoot to a little tetter-todder, drink craft beer as the sunset before returning to my bachelor's pad and drink and write til one. Ah, those were the days.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 23
Offline)
Comments2
Sounds comfortable indeed.
So profound and sage. Lovely imagery and your words are coated in golden melodies! 💖
Thank you Rocky. That's an older poem from 2005. I was single then(well, divorced) I had my job, a cockatiel, one living, one deceased. I drank craft beer and wrote ALOT OF POETRY. My first bird Romeo, was buried under a cherry tree, near the child's swings and teeter-taughter.
I would sit."Beneath the cool, wet grass" talk to my lost friend, and then go home and write. So yeah, this poem has a lot of memory. Thanks again Rocky-Tj
Wow what a picturesque life. Beer, dead pets, and mourning near children grounds. I really felt this poem and you expressed yourself very well. Life is a blessing, even during all the madness. Thanks for the insights. Have a great day fellow poet! 💖
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