A dark Irishman,
with hair straight and lacking,
points to my heart from
orphan beginning,
little boy in a playground,
I see him sitting by that
old Sycamore tree,
pulling sleeves down,
he believes in me,
little girl on a stage,
singin’,
“I got a nickel and a penny too,”
hundred dollars for a well carried tune,
he’s tellin’ the teacher he wants to go home,
his moma is dead he has no home,
she’s tellin’ the teacher she lives with a bad
man and moma is at work, doin’ all that she can,
so they are somewhere between day and dawn,
playin’ an adult game of singin’ and song,
she’s thinkin’ he’s the gift of beat, the motion
of rhyme, no longer askin’ for more time,
she sits at her desk, thinkin’ about
fences around him, her and all that hate,
still generatin’ from centuries of tired
broken ugly gates,
I am he and he is she,
but in the Mississippi they’d still kill them both,
he sits at a table
shared with no one noticing the slightest
hue of fields and broken dreams
just him and her, drinkin’
a nice bottle of wine,
and all the world is a long
paragraph and a beautiful line,
but they didn’t see what they saw,
they saw one another, beautiful
love in song and red,
but they call her a money bag,
and him a mooch, when he’s the rich man
and she wore no boots.
Photo Credit
Photo is Public Domain from Public Domain Images
Never a more perfect last line. A poet who writes with a brush and uses many colours
I came here by accident while studying the myths of the sycamore trees in lore. I came here listening to the haunting song of Jimmy Scot by the same name, and the music of Angelo Badalamenti. This goes so well with that. Whether by mistake or by design I am happy I stumbled across this. Very lovely poem.
The twist in the middle: “I am he and he is she” is like something out of a surreal dream. The tables get turned and you’re not sure what side you’re standing on any more.
Lovely
Thank you so much for reading. I just saw this comment. I appreciate you taking time to read it.