Winter tapping
hollow maple tree trunk-
a four month visitor about to move in
unload his messy clothing,
be windy about it-
bark is grayish white as coming night with snow
fragments the seasons.
The chill of frost lays a deceitful blanket
over the courtyard greens and coats a
ghostly white mist over reddish gold
maple leaves widely spaced teeth-
you can hear them clicking
like false teeth
or chattering like chipmunks
threatened in a distant burrow.
The maple tree knows the old man
approaching has showed up again,
in early November with
ice packed cheeks and brutal
puffy wind whistling with a sting.

The drifter in the room is a stranger,
he is crazy, is Bigfoot with deer moccasins on−
monster of condominium rooms and dreams.
The drifter in this room used to be my friend.
He spoke straight sentences, they did not sound like poetry-
reverberated like a narrative, special lines good a few bad,
or stories being unwound by the tongue of a gentleman,
lip service, juggler of simple words to children.
The night is a dark believer in drifters,
they sound sober, affairs with the wind,
the 3 A.M. honking of the Metro trains.
Everything sleeps with a love, a nightmare at night.
The drifter.

A darkened bar
An old guitar
A stage that once played host
To all the Delta greats and now
to Robert Johnson's Ghost

An old man
His spitting can
A boy from up the coast
Learning how to play the blues
In the home of Johnson's Ghost

You gotta feel the music boy
You sure don't feel too much
Your fingers skipping half the notes
You're playing double dutch
Slide it, let the music meld
That's what folks all want the most
You got to feel it, yes sirree
Like Robert Johnson's Ghost

Five hours passed
Time went fast
But what he learned the most
Was feel the notes
That were wrote
By Robert Johnson's Ghost

The spirit has to fill you
You have to suffer for the blues
You can't come in and play for us
In shiny, brand new shoes

The old man
his spitting can
Made the young boy cry
He played the notes
That Johnson wrote
on the day that Johnson died

Until you feel the music boy
And stop playing double dutch
You got to slide the fingers son
Don't use the guitar as a crutch
Remember where you're playing
And to who it still plays host
You're playing for the netherworld
And Robert Johnson's Ghost

Smell of earth
Rugged brown
Taste the rain as it falls down
Rise and fall
Blue and green
Trace the clouds that paint the scene
Lift your eyes
Make no sound
Feel the stillness all around
Bow your head
Kiss the ground
This is where your heart is found

To start fresh
A chance to be different
A chance to love
But what do I want?

To travel far
And feed the spirit
Quench the wanderlust
But what do I want?

To love another
An honest tenderness
A heart that makes mine beat again
But what do I want?

To write the stories
Learn the legends
To know the stars above
And that is all I *need

I.    the end of life;
      that which was always fated
      shocks us, even still

II.  the passing of time;
      we can never comprehend
      our frail existence

III. the creative soul;
      we must, with earnest ink,
      make every word count

IV. the end of an era;
      it is but a beginning
      of something much more

All of a sudden;
I don't know how we got here,
But we cannot stay

Pussycat Dolls,
Pussycat Dolls,
Where have you been?

We've been up to London
To see Queen The Musical
Then went to see the mayor
Hid his computer mouse
On his electric chair.

Switched it on!

Not so much PC -
More AC/DC

And then we were gone
On a sightseeing trip
With an aunt and a niece.

Poor Boris Johnson

RIP.