The ocean of dreams
  
The old man was still in his bed; someone said, is he dead?
No, not yet he says I dream of seagulls flying over the ocean.
Once I was a dolphin, my sons and daughters live there,
Now they are in the bay of Cascais, waving for me to join them.
They need a father figure.
Years ago, he swam ashore, and kind people gave him a suit.
Now he walks like Hercules Poirot, small careful steps.
He dreams of the vast ocean he knew so well, swam alongside cargo ships.
It was a fun time but not a place to write poetry.
My dear children, he says, I will join you later when I write the poem.
Of everlasting love.
Is he dead?  Someone whisper, no, he is only dreaming of the sea.
He knew so well.

I touched the turbulent sky on parchment paper wings,
Crashing to the morning mist engulfing me in those terrible tresses.
Oh, how a constant echo of sorrow rings
And everything is wicked that reality undresses.

And I ever long for that open abode,
Where those in flight soar peacefully
But my feelings are suppressed and the worst stowed
And I hold myself down with the weight of me.

Look upon those clouds, carelessly they drift,
Much like my thoughts they disappear
And now that radiating rift
Well, it was never so near.

I grow old but remain so young
My naivety is a razor, recurring and unrighteous.
How many sentiments has my heart sung
I know this one is over and any effort gratuitous.

I wish we could fly to the south of France
There we would laugh, love and dance,
But like everyday and overnight
There fades in and out the light.

These romantic stories fail
And all my rights reveal my wrongs
We find it dying like the last ringing chord
Of two lovers sharing a sad song.

Getting old



Reading the papers this morning
was a sad affair, so many of the famous stars of yesteryear
had succumbed to old age.

They were as I´m in their eighties and I felt their death
as a sting in my heart, soon it will be my time to go
I accept this, but will not sink into depression.

Of everything that has happened in my life I feel no guilt
hindsight is a waste of time, my lack of success is a bonus
I have no laurel to rest on and can do as I please.

What is noticeable is my lack of understanding
of a language that has changed it is more lose now and
that is good, but it takes some effort.

The river of words I bathed in, flows slower now it is
a struggle to find the right expression, I feel as I´m
learning to swim in colder water.

Living in Portugal as I do is fine they are gentler here
and has patience when I struggle for words in shops
I have to resort to poetic expressions.

They smile broadly and think what a funny old man
I don´t mind, my wife leans heavily on her crutch,
and she gets first in line. We try to look decrepit.

At the end of this month, I need a new driving license
I have spring in my steps, luckily my eyesight is good
and the heart and diabetes go unmentioned.

Scars say
The thousands of words
That never left my mouth

These gusts seem to move the house
for which i am suddenly grateful
and guilty
even wondering 'bout the wildlife in this
gale of snow


even buried a line
back there
in that gap
between the stanzas
got it

sheepish
in the cold
i make soup
of
my life

or maybe
the
soup of my life
it is
that good

the warm
tasty
on my toasted
buttered rye
upside
of avoidance


Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis

Let the 
taste & smell
of the alcohol
possess you to
numb the pain
that he gave you.

  -He donates pain though.