The Newfoundlander Poem by Aron Heroux

The Newfoundlander

Rating: 5.0

Smells of ash and cigarettes
sour the air while the
sickly sweet vapours of
spilled beer rise and mingle
with the crowd.
Sounds of shouting conversation
and bursting laughter meld
with the music, becoming
a pulsing hum that reminds me
of and old engine.
- the rhythm occasionally broken
by the clack of pool balls.
Over at the bar old men clutch
their drinks like faded memories
of glory, now tarnished with time,
but just as bright in their minds.
The music pounds louder and
a mob of people rush to the floor.
Bodies begin to move to the beat.
The women slink and contort
while the men sway and shuffle.
Men, young and old, form
a circle around the convulsing crowd,
self-consciously bobbing their heads
to a different beat.
(A few bite their
lower lips for effect) .
The geriatrics pull themselves
out of their chairs and,
bones creaking, shuffle
to the dance floor where
they explode into life,
rekindling a youth that
makes them jump into
the air, and dance terribly.
I laugh with them,
do my best Travolta,
and we laugh again.
Cheap perfume fills the air and
I breath deeply.
Images flash in my mind...
A mountain.
A plane.
A girl.
Everything fades but the girl.
Suddenly a ray of light flashes off
a shard of glass.
I close my eyes,
and I see her smile.

Reinalie Jorolan 07 December 2006

my favorite part-geriatrics in their terrible dance and when you laughed....My oh my...i love the imagery, the life reflected in it, this rocks......really very nice piece. Touch down and raise the roofs....Thanks. hugs. Rein

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