deepundergroundpoetry.com
Wayward Poets
Someone goes out early, every morning
to make sure that the welcome mat
is free of leaves
Or during winter, of snow
There's a key, under the mat, but
the door has never been locked
There's always someone
coming or going
To this old, white concrete house
atop the edge of a cliff
-Looks like a fingernail at the end
of a crackled finger
of the old man mountain
Pointing down towards the valley
Those that look up, thinking
is it choosing me
But it's not a path
for the weak hearted
A spiraling gravel road
cuts through rock and forest,
leads up the mountain
The house is alone,
the only destination
As the curious meander upwards
by car or by foot
Easy to miss the place, in winter
if the snow is thick, and at dusk
But fire-glow illuminates the windows
like an oven baking bread
in its womb
and we are pulled towards it
Our eyes telescoping until they water
like our mouths
Inside, a makeshift bar
mostly coffee, but also tea
and whatever anyone has chosen to bring
or leave behind
Once they've accomplished something
worth taking back down, to town
A rough looking man pushes hard
as the front door harshly swings open
A few of the regulars giggle
knowing it's an easy access entrance
One of them asks him,
did his car make it up the road okay
He stares, a long second
and says "What road?"
A pleasant lady, Greta
leads him to the fireplace
Offers him coffee, and asks
if he needs a pen
He looks around, several tables
People, paper, pens...
A younger couple, acting like lovers
but too pretty to suffer the elements
to get here
They're sharing a cup of spearmint tea
and rubbing their pens together
between sentences
A table of older women
comparing stories aloud
more than writing anything down
Trading ideas, making up histories
But it's not like stealing memories
It's enhancing what's came to pass
for the all of them
And there's always Edward
who sits farthest
from the fireplace
because he can't write
if he's too content
But don't be fooled;
He's the rose that was born
closest to the thorns
back in the day
And he's still full of vigor
He's got to be seventy by now
Sitting at the dark table
burning his third candle tonight
He spends his thoughts
on creating animals
with the melted wax
And that little horde surrounds him
as he struggles to find words
to sneak onto the dancing shadows
created by candle and creature
that skitter across his paper
He did a book tour, back in '97
got a lover out of it
Who then left him
for a guy with a sailboat
So Edward stays far
high up, on land
Katie sits at the bar
writing nothing
She watches Oscar, at his hands
as he glides his pen
over the paper, like a light-pole
atop a street of snow
Oscar writes about Katie
But he never uses her name
Just her face for inspiration
As the fireplace illuminates
what he thinks
is the most beautiful thing
he's ever saw
Greta goes to the bar
for more coffee
Asks Katie for a favor;
"Can you take this over to Oscar?"
And even when standing, on two feet
it seems like Katie crawls, forever
The table of old ladies goes silent
As Edward forms some candle wax
into the shape of a heart
He pushes his pen
into the bottom of it
Makes a hole
He takes the heart over to Oscar
and tells him to give it to Katie
Maybe she'll like it
and put it on her own pen
Then Edward whispers to him
to stop stalling
Outside, down the mountain
there is a world, rushing
Trying to live, through
the peaces between wars
Complaining about neighbors
and traffic, and laws
And religions that counter
their own
Maybe they're each happy
once a week
Maybe never at all
Yet, thus, this home
away from disappointments
A place for wayward poets
Where four square walls
encircles all
Where time is only counted
by how many logs
we went through today
And by Edward's creations;
He makes a pretty good rose.
~~~
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 9
reading list entries 7
comments 16
reads 209
Commenting Preference:
The author is looking for friendly feedback.