there’s a fella
makes his home inside the small words
of reaching and touching and dance
on the footpaths and sidewalks
of sunshine and rain
tells stories to himself
and anyone can spare a second
if they want to
to listen
if they really want to
pretty words pretty words
like christmas wrapping
and ribbons
or flowers left on a doorstep
he wants to reach out or to come inside your place
with his handful of pretty words
but who’s going to listen can you tell me?
who’s got the time
for touching and dancing and for reaching out?
nobody I know
no-one who knows what they’re doing
and anyway
what right does a joe with a pencil in his hand have
to grasp at a sky that flashes
with the twinkling of the masters
scattered across the spread of spoken words
in stanzas of movement and light?
he’s only a tryer coming up cheap and fast
passing from our sight like a shooting star
to burn without leaving a smoke trail
or a mark on the ether or the sky
to point out the way he went
he’s just like the rest of them
so who gives a damn huh?
shhh
joe pretty-words is writing again
wonder what it is this time
anybody want to listen when he’s done?
anybody?
Copyright May 2000 ©
Published in e-zine (UK) ~(the poetry) Worm 6 – gone now.
29/01/18
I love this. I want to listen. I want to take the time!
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Thank you Candy. Glad the piece works that way.
Cheers,
Frank
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I enjoyed that and it is interesting t experience different elements in your work. Really nice.
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Thanks Anita.
Cheers,
Frank
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Damn those twinkling masters. They haunt us whether they’re dead or alive.
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They sure do, Fred. That was written a long time ago, but they’re still do a lot of haunting.
Never mind.
Thanks for dropping by.
Cheers,
Frank
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