For the group that is notoriously almost synonymous with
lost or troubled.
For my people-
the poets and the lost.

For my friends who can’t seem to speak with
eloquence,
yet pour out their soul on paper,
who spell out their heart in ink.

For anyone who uses a pen as their medium
and words as their art form.
For those whose blood turns to ink
or words on a bright screen piercing through the dark.

For those whose eyes glaze over as their minds furiously enact a story
or piece together just the right phrasing.

For those that are only okay and constantly exhausted.
For those that mutter, “I don’t think I can,”
or “I’m just tired.”
For those with a firm grip on insanity and caffeine.
For those who make plans but rarely follow through.

For those who too often hear,
“Stop worrying,”
“It’ll be okay,”
and “I don’t know how to help.”
Or “You have to let it go,”
“Just go with it,”
and “It doesn’t matter.”

For those with tired eyes, blank faces, and rare, genuine smiles.
For frazzled insomniacs or narcoleptics.
For those who laugh too loud but often stay silent.

For those huddled in blankets in bedrooms,
in corners observing the outside world.
For those who love small settings
and avoid large gatherings like the plague.

For the worriers and the wanderers seeking to find themselves
in a perfect combination
of letters.

For the groups that seem to go together
like a typewriter and frustration;
or a pen and paper.

For my people-
the poets and the lost.


~SES

A small group (or collection, if you wish)
of wanderers and travellers
And people with desires
to see great marvels
Met by accidence,
in a era of confusement
Held together,
by mutual suspicions,
they decided
To leave their abodes.  
So they travelled a long way
Until they were in a place
A very dusty place,
with dry old things
Dry like a last years leaves,
as if there were trees
In a scorching new summer

They decided by mutual acclamation
that they were searching now
A quest had been undertaken
By accidental serendipity
Or so they believed,
among themeselves
To find a way -
To no longer be
in this place of dust
With its winds,
and fierce sands
The kind the stings your eyes,
grits your teeth
sands your clothing
and small possessions
And after a many month of same such
Make's your light heart -
heavy.

But lacking a compass
or even knowledge of one
Or any real idea of how to travel
they moved in circles
for many's the long time
Never really sure they were,
arguing........ always
This is probably what kept them alive,
or at least
That is what many now believe
Their arguing - their fighting
this generates interest,
and interest keeps you alive
But still in spite of all this,
they weren't really
Getting -
Anywhere.................

Once in their travels,
they came upon a walled city
They knocked hard the gates,
made of a redded, felted wood
Soft to the touch,
like a hide of a living creature,
or rough carpet
"What do you want?!"  
"Who are you, state your business please!"
Cried the Gatekeeper to them
As this was his role
in the proceedings, you see;
And he didn't get to do it often
Very few people came
through the wastes,
unless.......Compelled -
by one reason or another
So he was overdramatizing (a little),
But we can forgive him,
his job was
quite boring,
after all.

Help us! They cried
We want to leave
this dusty dry place
Full of bleached sheep bones,
black stones
And red rocks;
with that dust,
The dust that stings our eyes
grits our teeth
sands our clothing
and small possessions
And after a many month
of wandering
And wondering
It has made our once -
light hearts
heavy
with opression
For now we cannot
perform our tasks
This place is too harsh for us,
We are only poeple,
and wanderers, after all

"Ah, I see!", the gatekeeper declaimed
A little over dramatically (yet again)
"So you are lost then,
my wanderers?"  
No!  Said several of the more......
outspoken wanderers.
There are always
a few outsoken people
in any group,
(Unless it's a group for shy people,
Of course).
"We, know precisely
where we are, -
We are in the dusty waste
at your gates!
We just don't want to be here!,
we want to be inside!"

At that, the Gatekeeper
opened the door
Slowly and surely
but with many creaks and groans
And inside, inside.....well -
There was a dusty city,
But just like outside
With unkempt streets
filled with goats, dogs, people
Unruly Children,
playing with dried out wood dolls
Angry woman -
murmuring to each other
And irritated men -
watching the angry women
"Come in if you wish" he said.
For we were all as you are now
Once....................................

To be continued.

Bravo! We've made it the to end!

With help from my favorite friend.

Musical mental volleying left the stage rent.

Myself, face down hours later, spent.