There is a place, down by the bank of the river
where I go to write my poems
Twixt the trees and the plants which stick up sharp
And at the base of an old oak tree,
...
The glowing tip of my cancer stick is the only light I see
As the wind blows low, on the whitest snow, there is only it and me
I stand alone, a frozen gnome, wondering what will I be
And the crushing blow, too hard to know, is I cannot be free
...
The River
There is a place, down by the bank of the river
where I go to write my poems
Twixt the trees and the plants which stick up sharp
And at the base of an old oak tree,
I will sit,
and I will look at what is good
With my eyes closed
while people pass me by,
On a path not far away
Why don’t they search for my screaming?
Faint though I know it to be,
There are tree people whispering
a countless chorus crying
Forgive god his trespasses
And I try to remember where I am
because sometimes I forget where this place is
if
It isn’t just some dream
And sometimes when I look for this place
I can’t find it
So I hang out in the new parking lot
down by the river
Built when they said there were too many transient
Individuals
down by the river
At least now I have a place to skateboard