the wind blows my window
i'ts near time to go
across the cold alley way
the dried leaves blow
outside every one's looking at me
but, their eyes look down; afraid to talk
is it them or me, my sanity or vanity
that makes them balk!
it's a San Francisco wind
blowing in
blowing the leaves around
i wanted to travel
but i'm locked in Chicago
with the Alburquerque blues
with all i have to lose
with the whole world from to choose
i'm back in my room, alone
with the any where i'm at, i'm still the same blues!
Would make a nice song. We can pick up and move to a glamorous place, but them ole blues just tag right along. Nice work.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You know, this is really good prose. I can't call it poetry because I think that would diminish what I see as a style of writing that is excellant. You have got to be a professional writer of some kind. A newspaper would be lucky to have a guy like you. GW62