(People Alone)


Maybe it's normal...maybe it's not,
maybe, i overdo it....yet, i still do it.
i always think of things to come
...at day time....even late nights,
thinking too much of my children
my children's children...my siblings
i even think of my siblings' brood
my dear friends and their worries
...thinking how i can help them.
....later, i get weary....fed up at times,
exhausted from worrying......wondering
how i could remedy even a bit....when
my hands are not that long to reach out.
...........................................
then, i think of people who live alone,
their thoughts...their predicaments.
there are those who enjoy and
progress in their solitude....then there
are those who are given no choice,
forced.......or suddenly found themselves
in that space....souls that cope with consequences,
alone at nights...while their frustrations
breathe on them...and stare back at them.

some end up too absorbed
in their own darkness.
........................................
those lovely night falls...those resplendent
moon-glowed nights, are joined...stained
by silent lamentations.....muffled cries,
yet...playing loud as thunder,
in the high open air...
.........................................
moments of hiding and seeking linger on,
they try to seek some fun,
yet, their ghosts, make them run,
whether in the dark, or under the bright sun.
weary eyelids become heavy, like those of a swan
sleep teases like evil...a bit of painful memory, and it's gone
...one's night is done...
..........................................
and, i realize
as i think along these lines,
my worries are just pebbles, not big stones
like theirs that whir,
over and over,
like a drone.
........................
whether with company, or on their own
they are people alone...


Sally

Copyright October 24, 2017
rrab

for T.M.R.
our "fellow" southern friend*

the southern way,
she-poet
teaches me
via long distance
breaking of the
braking neural inhibitions of
the loudest silences
that only humans can
mistress

photos, stories,
Facebook posts
how the earth rebirths
taking unasked
unwitting but wisely
both of us
to be refreshed,
so verily
the southern way

sharing worldly  
southern words
betraying a
more than
passing
(how I hate that word)
expertise
in spring colors
glorious to every sense,
best described
as nature's way to humanize what we wordily call
hopeful,
self-betraying herself by the
she -poets
innate
southern ways

calls me
northern boy
in a
true voice,
raconteuring,
quick retorting
always in the midst of
d r a wling stories,
about all crazy frogs
of Columbia County,
jumping multiple courses

all about
she-poets navigating
life erratic,
half ecstatic
yet singularity colored,
characteristic of a  
ninety percent southern
Tennessee whiskey blues

hear clear
she-poets
welcoming swirling
undertow undertones
lying just above the calmest
morning water surface glistening
words betraying nothing,
yet saying
all in
between, in
pauses of
speckling sun drops spectacular

she-poet
has her places
in woods, knolls and
rarely visited mountains
where cold brooks and cold beers
southern sooth
in ways
I will likely,
wanting but unable,
never learn
to hear clear

the southern way
is never flex,
nerve never
never bend, smile,
still fighting
the prior lost cause
ignore the
cracks coverup

until and when
the afternoon sun
ceases to warm
the orchard porch
daylighting no longer
when no one is around
she-poet
weeps out loud alone
in the
southern way

and I,
northern boy,
student witness,
having obtained
a learner's permit
for her teachings
re
the southern wayfaring ways
of living life

weep along side
in my unsatisfactory
northern way,
learning that,
who knew,
tears are also
glue
anywhere