Ken e Hall

(Last Century / England-Now Australian Citizen)

Where Ever You May Be

Writing poetry is a lonely by yourself account
Of writing down what is in your own head,
A metaphor you see in your mind of
Love, hate nature and the ever full moon
So I’m here to write a poem, a poem
That knows where it’s going with a start
A middle and an end that seals it off.
Something new no daffodils or roses
No broken hearts, no tigers or leaves at your feet,
Or no more wishes for the soul mate out there.
I know the something no one talks about
I’ll write a poem of the wind, yes the wind
The wind that we all let free, discreet of course,
The ones who leave it behind in the lift
Then ten people enter and pretend it’s not in the air
Then all stare at the fat guy who is innocent
And try not to breathe, believe,
The young lady with a baby in the supermarket aisle
Lets off a rasper then says to baby “What was that! ”
Little children of three playing on the floor know that
Grand dad when sat always uses his left leg to raise his cheek
To let his wind go free, they see it’s so natural,
Hence the old saying
‘Where ever you may be always let your winds go free.’
Yes I’ll write a poem of that not forgetting those
Who emulate their pet dog at their feet
Who stink like hell without a noise, and so discreet.

Submitted: Thursday, August 04, 2011
Edited: Friday, August 05, 2011

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  • Stan Petrovich (8/4/2011 7:57:00 AM)

    Funny, Ken. I used to take 'the wind' seriously, but now I cannot. In poems I've written, the wind is always a metaphor for timelessness, never stinkiness. But you have tossed a dagger out there, and we poets must and should do that! (Report) Reply

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