The Poet’s House

The Poet’s House

He sat at the rickety old table
The sound of fingers tapping on wood…
The fire still crackling in the old wooden stove
Attempting to stand on three dilapidated metal legs
With a knotty pine branch for a fourth…

The frayed quill pen lay dormant
Atop the faded parchment…
His mind wandering through
Memories in the fog
While in this moment finding
More interest in the whiskey
He held in his hand…
Then in his poetry…

But, then, he writes more of honesty
While indulged within his intoxication…
Speaking often upon the parchment
Of a love, long since lost to his wanderings…
And his intoxications…
Yet, forever lingering within his mind…
Now filled with only remembrances
Of what once filled his pages…
Which remain at present… empty

His long silver hair,
Slightly curled at the tips
Falling just below his shoulders…
His soiled and worn gaucho,
Its brim bent into contortions,
Resembling so accurately his mind
In this moment…
His right hand alternating between
The un-rhythmic tapping on the table…
To the slow stroking of whitened beard
Now streaming eight… or perhaps nine inches
South of his chin…
His left hand gripping tightly
The bottle of tipple…

Troubled by the voices
That echo in his head,
Of poets long passed before him…
Their whispering…
Attempting to engender his saga in rhyme…
Only serving to perpetuate his confusion…
Distending ever so conterminally to the abyss
Of his discernment…

Most of the folks in these parts
Fully expect him to be found
Sitting in that very chair…
Just as he is in this moment…
Un-breathing his poetry…
His philosophies of love…
And of life…
Eyes fixed upon the parchment before him…
No longer encasing what once was
A kind and amatory soul…

Yet… he gathers another breath…
Looks slowly around the room
At the antiquities still gathering dust
From every intellection of his chronology…
Lingering in the faded moments
When those same antediluvian bagatelles
Were bathed in loving interludes of heaven…

He often casts his gaze upon the brass bed
Lying undisturbed in the loft…
The flax yarn linens remaining in their perfectness
Far beyond his last counting of fortnights…
His idea of a restful sleep
Is to curl up on the quilt that rests on the floor
Alongside the old wood stove…
Snuggled warmly between his dog
And the cat that had mysteriously appeared
The day after his Maggie had left…
Forcing its way into the cabin,
Making herself at home as if
She had always lived there…
While he and the dog treasured the company

As I near the old cabin
Far removed from anything of civilization
I pause to observe the ribbon of smoke
Arising from the stove pipe
Casually drifting in the breeze along the hillside
Gently wending its way into the sky
Of azure and amaranth…
I have brought for him
His most cherished items…
Next to his pen and his parchment…
For I have come with a tin of wooden matches
And candles of bayberry wax…
For his most beautiful words
Ever finding their way
Onto the edge of his tattered
And darkened parchment
Arrive always…
In the stillness of the dark…
In the moments
Just before the dawn…

Michael33

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31 thoughts on “The Poet’s House

    • Good morning Sue and I am so glad that you loved this poem. I must admit that most of the credit for this one, goes to ‘that’ poet… It seems that he allowed his words to pass from his world into ours… I am most grateful for the experience. You know of course, I could not write this comment to many of my readers… but I know that you understand the enlightenment that comes from beyond that of our own wisdom… So glad you dropped by… Hope your Tuesday is most beautiful…
      Michael

      Liked by 1 person

    • Good morning Laine… Thank you so much for your wonderful comment… I was hopeful that after reading this one, the reader would would feel as thought they ‘knew’ the poet in the story. You have made me feel as though I accomplished that goal. Thank you for brightening my day…
      Hope yours is filled with enlightening moments…
      Michael

      Liked by 1 person

    • Good morning Audrey Dawn… Thank you for your always ‘special’ comments… I’m certain that you must feel as though you know him, at least somewhat, from reading this poem. The fact that it has encouraged the desire to know him better, has brightened his world as well as mine. However, the line…
      “His soiled and worn gaucho,
      Its brim bent into contortions
      Resembling so accurately his mind
      In this moment…”
      May cause you to sit at least a small distance from his feet…
      However, I feel certain that the fact that he often has echos in his head of poets passed won’t concern you… I can tell by your writing that you share that experience with him…
      Thank you again Audrey… Thank you for always being here to lift my spirits and to fill me with encouragement that I sometimes must search hard to find…
      Hope your Tuesday is filled with beautiful moments…
      Michael

      Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you so much Maria… With your knowledge of gardens and flowers, I am very honored by your comment. I just visited your site exploring your post of the Crepe Myrtle… I wandered ever so gently through every intricate detail of each photograph. Magnificent color…
      Thanks again for dropping by and taking the time to brighten my day…
      Michael

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    • OH… if I could only live in a place like that… waking up in the morning with only the sounds of nature and the beautiful surroundings… I might even be able to write some good poetry…
      Good to hear from you. I’m sure you are as busy as always, so I certainly appreciate you taking the time to stop by and to brighten my day…

      Liked by 1 person

      • You are a wonderful joy to visit, you are one of the good things in life. If I ever get to busy to slow down for the good things in life they need to just shoot me in the head and put me out of my misery. One always thinks a cabin in the woods will be quiet but there is a cacophony of sounds to go with it. I have found that city folks I bring to the cabin always have trouble sleeping the first week or so due to all the “noise” animals/insects aren’t so quiet once they get outside the cities.

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  1. Michael i could feel the life and breath of every single word which found life in this poem…very deep, soulful and genuinely real. Your words painted images so vividly! I love the poem my brother! God bless!

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    • Good morning Wendell… You have so brightened my day. Your words are the first that I have read this morning with my first cup of coffee… putting a smile on my face that I would have thought might not appear for the entire day… I thank you… I will pass my smile to another…
      Hope your day is filled with enlightenment…
      Michael

      Like

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