A Picture of Henry David Thoreau
07-09-2017
Louisville, Kentucky
Sitting under the glare of
Hunter S Thompson –
at the concreate table
outside of the coffee house
my Mother loved, next
to the bookstore she
used to drag us kids
into, years ago –
the carpenter bees visit
the passion flowers as
I fall into a well of
thought. Just one opening
of the door, and an
image – A book
stares at me, and
the bearded David
is sitting on the
display table – and over
on a different shelf
almost all of Wendell
Berry’s works are hand
signed – no mark up
applied to the printed
price – a massive cloud
just above, orange hue
silver linings – my friends
the mockingbirds are
singing – little chirping birds –
talking, talking, talking –
but those bees! They root
through over grown
vines to find a spectacle
of a flower.
I miss my friend John Hagan –
we used to sit at
this table – minds
wandering, words flowing
alive with conversation –
I feel him now. I
can still see him
walking down the street –
his glide, hop of innocent
happiness, his loving smile
greeting on arrival.
The smell of food, spices
and flowers fill the
light breeze as my
gaze goes looking up
to that cloud – I think
funny honest thoughts.
What if Thoreau was
married?
That story he wrote would
have been quite different!
What if the Dali Llama
had a teenager, rebelling
just to rebel. What were
those conversations
we used to have here
all about? I, like Rumi
long for my friend!
The Friend!
It is easy to write
poetry if your intended
audience is God!
These words may or
may not matter!
That cloud is gone
just like the memory of
many nights, walking
these streets, on this
road – years ago –
ecstatically manic and
following the thoughts
and words of Bawa, my
Sufi teacher! It is easy to
write if your mentor
gives you a job, and then
the next thing you know
you have half the
shelf dedicated to
bringing to life
the words of a whirling
dervish. As the sun sets
on Hunter, his memory
as large as a building – this
paper is coming to an
end – My honesty
takes over and my
pen could say what is
really on my mind!
But the the feller at the
bookstore just walked
by carrying garbage to
the dumpster – so I
won’t get mad and
let this pen write that
I don’t know why I think
I should keep going.
Maybe, I should keep
my inspiration quiet?
Keep it to myself.
I am waiting for a sign-
but all I seem to
get is another sun set.
Another cup of coffee –
another worried mind,
another mindful thought
before I go – this paper
is almost gone –
I was asked once why
I decided to write
this poetry …
My answer was, “I don’t
know.” I told Wendell
once that I had not read
all his works. He said, “You
don’t have to!”
John Paul
