we were poor
but not deluded

and when
van morrisson's
"brown eyed girl"
comes on the radio on
that worn
old
brown rug
my brother and I
started tapping our feet
shaking our heads
to the music and
our sisters are smiling
at us and
our mother is laughing
at us

and all we needed was
laughter and love
a prayer and a song

turn up the radio

Nonsense hiding in an autobiography,
Starting down dusty roads,
Where you truly found yourself,
Daring the mountains and questioning the cold,
To high rises with coke that guy you didn’t know too well brought,
She was there naked and gleaming,
Maybe she had od’d but ****,
She’s great at acting,
Just ask her mom,
You saw her face before,
In flashes of hot breath playing against,
Folk songs and guitars in a punk bathroom,
You didn’t know the faces then,
But you will,
Trust me,
You will,
Weren’t you there at the great protests,
Arm bands and water riots?
You saw what they saw,
But really,
“it’s poetry, not an autobiography”
Spelling errors speak to those who are deaf,
And you say it like it’s fact,
What else do you got?
You remember staring down a gun,
That didn’t belong to you,
In fact it wasn’t aimed at you,
It was aimed at them and all you could do was shake,
But the shakes don’t change when you,
Wake up the same,
You cant shake you,
You told me that while we layed in the sun,
Pointing out constellations,
I said,
It’s morning,
Why talk?
All I heard was a sigh,
But through the onomatopoeias,
I heard things like,
You cant see the stars but the sun still shines,
Whatever that means,
the rest of the day didn’t matter,
and you traveled again,
where’d you go now?
Maybe your letter will help,
Or maybe the call you sent is the way you,
Tried to send a pick-me-up,
Or maybe it’s just *******,
Either way,
Yea,
Either way,
We’ll answer.

She's crying over text messages,
As the pink haired ****** decides it's time,
The dope always wins,
The lady behind me has flowers,
With a note tucked,
It says,
"Dedicated to the little moments".
The former **** with crossed oot S's,
Smiles at a skinny Jew,
We do change,
Most of the time over a ride,
But usually the ride lasts the lifetime,
She's no longer crying,
Trying to be strong like her mama once told her,
When she fell,
The college kid in tucked flannel reads chapter 45,
Of a book that is blank,
The pages scream, "fill me in!"
He checks his wallet, not knowing what else,
To do,
The poet is in the front,
Or the back,
It depends on which way you're going,
He writes this little story,
Tapping a face that reflects his good,
Intentions,
He has to write the opera of souls,
Poured out,
He signs off,
Another Lightrail Tale.

Today I will walk
Through this busy land
Unhurried and unrushed
Though the world not understand

RLB

Everyone wants to
                      be the sun,
         to brighten up someones
                 life, but why not
           be the moon to shine
                   on someones
                   darkest hour?

                 And if you are
        to love, love like the moon
                 loves. It doesn't
            steal  the night.  It  only
                 unveils the beauty
                     of the days

                  Love me like
           the moon intended, all
              the  way  through
                   the darkness.

                 The sun loves
            the  moon  so  much,
                 he dies every
          night to let her breathe.

             Never save things
          for special occasions.
                Being alive is
        the only special occasion
                       there is.
                                                            
                                                                                            Jon York   2019

And i can't take my mind
From that hairdresser i frequent
Just had her second baby
Right after her father had died
To leave her care for a half brother
That is lost to the angst of teenage pride
Unknown a mother on a drug fuelled ride
Stacey the one to pick pieces as they fall
For she is beautiful, she never cries.
She only ever smiles, she only smiles

To her my coat of colours i do gift
On a hook does it hang
As her life she strips bare
With an ease of fallen discarded hair
Her colours unfurl in humility and grace
Her red is of creation, of a burning fire
Not one of foolish unrepentant desire
Her blue a reality, a living breathing sky
Not the word of a poet, not of you nor of I
Her green is her renewal
Of the fertile lives that she now tends
Jealousy nor envy no means to that end
Yet evening falls, in who will she confide?  
No one to turn to, nowhere to hide
For she is beautiful, she never smiles  
She only ever cries, she only cries