EMPTY POCKETS
-after fernando pessoa
if the wind cried Mary,
it is a liar, to be ignored.
the wind be a poor poet
in these weeks of distress.
perhaps in time, i could
teach it rhyme,
the voice of ache, the voice
of sorrow .
or the voice of hope?
maybe, when the rains of
tomorrow come.
now, no dollars for pleasure
in my pockets.
just pennies for survival.
***
let this poem be slow, as
her once smooth flesh
in moonlight.
let it be magic,
as the sparkle in her eyes!
***
will i ever know peace?
i am tired of wearing the
braclet of the damned -
my pockets full of rain.
***
fog off the river, smelling
of winter, jasmine -
it's a damned good time
to be alive.
children in the square for
the puppet show
& coffee is just a dollar
a cup!
my empty pockets -
damn! my empty pockets.
***
the moon, the sun, the rain
-
all fallen gods no longer
able to believe in their magic.
now nothing more than nuisances.
old men & women that
cannot keep themselves clean.
***
yes. yes. send me the artifacts
of love.
of prosperity.
i am alone here. hermit
in asphalt & concrete.
alone in the glass house
of the fallen.
yes. yes. i will understand
alienation.
the histories of alone.
after all, i am human, at
least part of me,
still needing the necessities.
the fatman weep. no one
to see tears,
but he pass the napkin,
as if a collection plate.
***
crow that calls morning
fog -
be my voice!
***
there is a pain in caring.
in needing,
just as there is a pain
in losing.
***
let cool breezes blow your
hair.
fog collects in the long
strands.
may you finally understand,
somehow, my love.
Kenn Mitchell
© :18-23:98
Midi Title: The Lady's Visions
