happiness is

Happiness is

I this what I wanted, writing for no one in particular
a few readers here and a few readers there
happiness is in what I cannot grasp.
I'm thankful for not becoming what I wanted to be
a falsehood, I tell myself, not being a painter
of Algarvian nature, not being the talk of the town
an easy person to talk to, invited to posh parties
I had a cafe, spent most of my time in the kitchen
hiding away from people
In Chester, I trained as an actor
 but never entered the stage
ran away to the sea, which turned out to be my
luck met a beautiful girl in Honduras
Had I not fled, I would never have met this girl,
who lives in my memory, the acting dream was
 an introverted fantasy
The girl is a jewel in my cashless memory bank
Discontent has much going for it contentment
means to be satisfied and not wanting more
Sweet is my melancholy has sustained and
kept my restless soul to look under stones and
find what I'm looking for, perhaps over the next
mountain, near a lake where undead anglers
float in silky silt.
I will steal their boat to where the river ends
and see my fame glow in colored light
for no reason at all, I will sing Jerusalem
will I then be happy or wish I were a painter