The ocean called out for me today
it’s salt carried to my lips by a piercing wind
a message kept from a childhood forgotten
What Does it Call For Tomorrow?
Tag: memory
Bar Keep
When I turned that key, the night was finally over
It wasn’t easy, they threw a few fists
Mad that the ale had dried up
Now, in the calm of being left alone
I would start with the ashes
dumping out another one of those “greatest nights ever”
As morning slowly took her place
I sat for once on a spinning stool
listening to the buzz of electricity like it was a farewell song
Just me and the ends of unfinished cigarettes
some drowned in half empty glasses
recounting stories of bravery, betrayal, and most times regret
Nights were once my domain
I was like a wrangler of saucy drunks
and disloyal eyes all bidding for my complete attention
Back then my stories were therapy
Music, a tool of enticement
friendly faces better than a tip
Like I Wasn’t Even There
Sure, the memories
But, the smell, the taste, the touch,
All still left to make believe
I miss…
The very start
Opening characters, scene one
Greener grass, the bluest skies, salty ocean
That street light at night where I would measure my shadow to the tip of the moon
Those flaked fences, white
A particular damp night sky that I loved and haven’t smelt in a long, long time
Tipped-toed curbs, run past the shop
Yes, my eyes could go blind and I would still make it anyway
Follow the path by memory alone…to my home
Grab a bunch of those crazy flowers along the way
But now, I can only recount
because tomorrow had to come
and now strangers walk about
like I was never even there
Bike Writer # 33 – Rejuvenate Your Inside By Going Outside
Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time. – John Lubbock
Bike Writer # 24 – To and From the Soul!!
The farther I travel, the closer I am to myself. – Andrew McCarthy
Bike Writer # 23 -It’s Good to be Alive!!
Another glorious day, the air as delicious to the lungs as nectar to the tongue. – John Muir
French Island
surrounded in the francais
schoolboys like I, chase through stone corridors in jest
pass tank topped bread makers and
rum runners filling dark sacks
who was I to speak to the going-ons of this foreign land
take me instead to the countryside
in an hour less a half
share with me tales
let me sip wine
and pretend that I am a man
