A PINT AT THE OLD GRANERY PUB

In today’s reality of things that

are only there in some virtual

way, my vision is blurred, and

not just in these old brown eyes,

but in my third one too. I can see

a friend I’ve made in a dream

I have of a Cornish village in the

south of England, near the sea.

Is there anything of poetry in

personal noesis that can take me

to visit churches or a pub where

people enjoy their leisure on a

summer lawn and talk of

things important to them over

pints of nut-brown ale?

What must it be like to live in

a hamlet of stones where everyone

knows the patterns on your best

dishes, and whether they’ll be

found neatly in a cupboard, or

resting in last night’s dishwater?

I imagine no one burgles, because

what could you do with old Allen’s

pocketknife or coin collection

while surrounded by so great a

cloud of witnesses? What peace

it must bring to troubled hearts

warm and safe from themselves

and everyone else?

I wonder, how do they speak of strangers

passing through who stop at the April Cottage

and Lapland Lodge for a cuppa and a plate

of roast beef or Kidney pie?

A town that needs only one poet

whose name is Hannah, because all

the regulars are, in fact, living poems,

alive in their place, doing slow motion

things in the garden, pausing to look

across the jigsaw fields in a hundred

shades of green stretching out as far

as their eyes can go.

So here I am, drafting a virtual poem

scooped out of my imagination about

Harmon’s Cross township in Cornwall,

England, inspired by a friend I’ve

never met and only seen through my

computer’s third eye, because I am

alive today and my own brown eyes

contract to see everything as I’d like

it to be and dream of a time more real. 

Reviews

[Dave Brown]

I get a good percentage of my Old English Village consumption from a realtor inspired program called "Escape to the Country."
It is quite interesting to find, that among so many other things, there is a neighborhood pub in each little village.
Enjoy your day.

[Vol]

Dave,
There is something about the UK... it seems muy blood was born there and longs to wallow on the ground where my ancestors walked.
Vol

[Dave Brown]

✔️ .

[John Sullivan]

Once had a thing for a girl named Hannah. Lovey name, and a lovely girl. I noticed we are no longer friends here on the Cafe, I sincerely hope I haven't wronged you!

[Vol]

John,
I have a niece named Hannah who recently earned her Ph. D. in Neuro psychology, her dissertation concerning a revolutionary treatment for PTSD. She is a Redhead of the first order!
And I jhave no idea why we might not be "friends " on here... it is nothing I did... I'll resubmit...
Vol

[John Sullivan]

Many thanks, and I'm glad to hear excellence runs in the family (:

[Lorry]

Aww man, people as poems in a village has near melted my brain outta my head!
Now, we all know who thinks she's a sonnet, but in real life is more a limerick than Shakespeare.
Then we'd have the exoticly sounded poems from far off lands, that are in actual fact not interesting in any way whatsoever, which is the opposite of what the wannabe hipster was intending.
Now I don't know what type of poem they really are, because they have bored me into not caring.
Now I have some questions for you my friend.
1.....who at the cafe do you secretly think owns a beret? In other words, who used to study philosophy? 😊
2.....is there anyone in the cafe who would make you move bars if they visited yours? 😊
3...if anyone in the cafe is the answer to both those questions, please let me know who they are so I can avoid them like the plague.
And which type of poem would you like to be? I reckon the cool cats would go for being a vilanelle, but I reckon I'd like to be a silent poem, maybe a smell, wafting from the page.
... Unless of course there already is a poetry type called dumbass trying to sound clevur! 😊

[Vol]

Lorry,
AHHH, questions! What is this some kind of test? Let me see...
1. The guy in the beret is N. Scott, a scholarly
schizophrenic who leads the poetry reading
every third Saturday from seven to eleven, I
call him "The Beard."
2. I'm pretty happy at Bean Central Coffee Shop,
it has a well-developed "Beat" feeling about it,
and a couple of poets old enough to qualify.
But you never know... And Alexander's Ragtime
Brew pub is around the corner and makes a
passable IPA, and a better Stout, so I feel my
bases are covered.
3. EVERYONE in the cafe should be avoided at all
costs! They all think they have the answers no
one wants to hear, and most have a hard time
finding something to smile about. Well until
after a few pintd at Alexander's. A couple of
the Chicks, though, are why I bother to go.
Especially Jamie, She spent her youth
wandering the Southwestern deserts and
soaking naked in the natural hot springs
scattered around. I think I love her.
I hope that clears things up, clever man.
Vol