Yup. I’ve written and recorded a new poem, toghether with a short piece of music I’d somehow managed to forget I did only a month ago in MuseScore, in response to a number of things, including a walk among frosty red oak leaves and a passing feeling of futility.
What shall I call the poem, I wonder. ’Sightlines’, perhaps? Yes. That’ll do nicely.
I’m leaving, my friend
The years aren’t on a mend
What they’ve gained is a loss
the shores that you see
aren’t the shores that I see
across the ocean, amidst the sea
Counting the years, cups of tea
Looking at maps, asking warily why
Good morning, my sweetie,
don’t think once that I
will ask ’bout your plans
The goalkeeper’s nigh
wearing a cloak of black and confusion
My sense of injustice is merely contusion
I’ve finished the wine sooner than was desired
and rented a star that wasn’t for hire
We’ll meet up some day at some random spring fair
I’ll be at a place that is quite far from here
I’m incredibly satisfied with the result. Is that wrong of me? Complacent, somehow? In blatant contradiction of the poem itself? Not so. Not so at all. No. The feeling of deep satisfaction is gently patting my brain and telling it ’hush, it will be all right in the end’.