Ever since I gave up drinking
I give a little money to bums
on the street
who, unlike the Red Winged-Blackbird,
do not sqauwk
a tumbling tune
atop cattails
or flash bold scarlet
and bright sulphur chevrons
all to divert attention from
the wife and kids
softly concealed
at home
along water courses,
marshes, and dry meadows
to bums, like me,
who, unlike the Red-Winged Blackbird,
are lie-downs
stinky sponges
with rotting shoes
and soggy pants
eyes deep, vacant
alone
afraid
needing to be drunk
to bums, like me,
who, unlike the Red-Winged Blackbird,
do not quietly weave
the arrival of Spring
nor do they flash lightning
in the glossy black of their eyes...
No.
Today the big lake is sweetly offering
2 to 4 inch waves
crashing in miniature like the break at Molokai...
bums are alive
birds are alive
I am alive
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A good attempt in the chapter of love, Jimi. You may like to read my poem, Love and Lust. Thanks