An unknown poet

I. City

Perhaps beyond

this gray dusty world

of methane lit streets

falling vapours of jet fuel

piles of trash on the paving 

like drifts of dirty snow

beyond

the rumbling of a hulkish train

its belly full of unhappy commuters

which in turn are

consumed again by their gray flannel suits

and crimson ties

beyond

the storefront windows

in whose mottled reflection totters

a pregnant mother

an injured worker whose leg won’t seem to work

an elderly lady bent with arthritis and brittle bones

beyond

-its into this world I step

my hands in my pockets

my scarf tight against the wind

my head nestled low

my mouth full of exhaust, air fuel, and human scent

I’m on the trail again

muck-raking, the human-story, gritty truths

sociologist/poet call me what you will

my shadow looms tall in the winter sun

always before me

always ahead

II. No small sum

All that is between us right now

with the heat of your body

and smoothness of your skin

is a sheen of sweat

born of drink

of laughter

of fumbling keys

of strewn clothes

we’ve pulled the covers up

the fan is in the corner of the room

oscillating back and forth

bringing cool air in from the window

and in the darkness

I can just make out the blowing curtains

you’re staring at the ceiling

eyes glazed, still panting some

your breasts heaving up and down in the humidity

of summer passion

pressing my lips to your shoulder

my hand finds that soft spot just below your tummy

my fingers fit in the grooves of stretch marks

and I trace you

as we drift off to sleep

in the morning you will wake up

and go back to work

and I will remain behind

in front of my keyboard

struggling to write

full of ideas

less so of execution

like the jingle of change in my pocket

when I need to make a phone call

or buy myself candy

or bottled water on a hot day

I hear your steps on our walk

I hear your keys fit into the lock on our door

the cat at her predestinated station to greet you

and at that moment

knowing that you have come back for another night

of antics, of tantrums

of drink

and some laughter

at that moment

I can write

III. Block

Sometimes

the grass is much greener

in the park down the road

so I go sit, think, scribble

whilst the birds chirp

the children play

and the old women feed the pigeons

I once had a Mina-bird

land upon my bench

awkwardly stumbling towards my leg

‘Uh ground control?’

‘Go ahead heavy-mina, this is ground’

‘Uh, ground, are we cleared for landing?’

‘Roger that, heavy, you are cleared’

‘Roger ground, it’s going to be a rough one’

it looked at me accusingly

askance as to why I was on its bench

and picked up my glasses and began to waddle off

I thought I was special

I thought nature had singled me out

spoken to me, landed next to me

bit me

I was wrong

Mina-birds like shiny things

Our neighbor upstairs doesn’t speak to us

never a word

only a dour face

stares at the ground

smokes his f**s

washes his car 3 times a week

I think he is angry

at the world

at me and Lisa

at his wife, his daughter

his in-laws

no matter how hard he tries

how many coats of wax

of rubs with a cloth

or scrubs with soap

his car is still dirty

if he’d speak to me

I’d tell him the truth which he seeks

his combination of problems vented

at the grubbiness of his car

I would give him this pearl of wisdom

‘You can’t fight London dust mate’

and he’d say

‘cheers’ and put his damn cloth down

IV. Palettes

There is a picture that hangs from my wall

bright green, subdued oranges and red

deep blues

it is the color of joy, peace, serenity

it is a painting of a landscape from Tuscany

and from this scene

I know

that if I ever were to go there

I could write a best-seller and retire

to a life of painting

landscapes from Tuscany

to sell in John Lewis

to other writers

to give them vision

and hope

A wise man once said that painters use paint

to make pictures

and that poets use words

to make pictures

but both use paper

my father is

practical and magical both

already 52

and 4 years older than his father was

when he was murdered

in Denver

for his Western-Union money

for his Western-Union money

my father is not as big of man as he once was

6’2, 205, full of muscle

now, I can see what I will become

my chest shrinking

my teeth yellowing

my eyes going worse than they already are

but wiser

and whimsical

about all of life’s troubles

I miss holding my dad’s hand

when he used to lead me around

pulled up by his

gargantuan height

like Piglet’s hand in Poo’s

it’s hard to be brave when you’re just a small pig

V. Write

You will never know my name

never read it on the best-sellers list

never see it in any poetry contest

(at least as the winner)

but I write

-from-

emotion

experience

my dreams

my hopes

my fears

to better my little corner of the world

to bring a smile to the love of my life

and some meaning to my head

I am a flower box of ideas

no, rather I am the seeds

scratched over and covered

by a layer of clay

so much time wasted

by waiting

for rain

for sun

and like an empty candelabra

I serve no purpose

but to adorn

but not to provide light

for the masses

I am pharaoh

I am caesar

I am king

I am castle

My words are my life

this poem is dedicated to me

-william paris