Its been a roller coaster week, so to close off, I have tapped into my poetry archives to share another free verse previously unshared.
A Lament No-One Has Heard
I
THE CARNIVAL
Come to the carnival
and watch the animals play
and clowns do tricks
while I eat a lollipop on a sugary scented stick.
Hurry!
Come to the carnival and watch
life stop
for a short, short festive day.
Running here and there
The Worker said "Don't have time to stop"
'... But there are animals doing tricks'
"Before the deadline?
got to meet the deadline."
"Another drink here and one over there"
Said a Fool at the bar,
as he stumbled over a stool
thinking he's got to get home
before his wife bars the door.
She always goes to bed at ten
with an alcoholic snoring beer
into her pretty, pretty ear.
He's a jester loving to play around
when his wife ain't there.
"Got a stick, man
need to pop my pills before ...
before I shake
rattle and rock and roll"
"You don't look look as though you smoke.
You look too young and innocent."
"Come on man, I'm beggin' you, need a stick
cause the carnivals in town!"
Whirling and rushing around
running here and there
playing a scenario with someone else's friend
lots to hide in the back scenes
but the performance is always good -
Routine and illusion
Yeah, the actors know their parts
when the carnival's in town,
II
SONG OF THE LAKE
How quiet it's here,
near the lake
away from a maddening crowd.
Quite alone in the silent world
beyond that pathetic town.
Trying to find my karma -
the natural way.
Trying to harmonise
with the seductive song of the lake.
Rhythmic rushing sounds
Water slapping onto distant shore.
Mosquitoes buzz slowly round
In a hypnotic annoying way.
A nightingale weeps a plaintive cry
to the dying sun
An owl heralds the rising moon
while day slips into the night.
I wish upon a falling star
that life could always be this way,
until I think how great it'd be
to listen to the song of the lake -
stoned -
while the mists roll in.
III
THE WEEPER'S SON
He drowned in the lake
the Weeper's son.
Adonis of manhood
Broad shoulders gleaming bare
His eyes were so dark.
I remember how they shined
and stirred the loins of my love
the nights he slept in my bed.
What a shame.
He is gone.
I nearly fell in love.
They never found his body,
I hear,
only an empty corkless bottle of rum
washed upon the heart of a stony shore.
Such a waste of creative life -
all gone -
when he drowned in that insipid lake.
When the carnival next comes to town,
Who will remember
The Weeper's son?
IV
HARPERS
They played at his funeral
a sad and melancholic tune
and everyone came -
The Worker
The Fool
The Addicted
And, the Weeper was there too,
howling a pitiful lament.
I don't think she had ever cared
until he was gone.
And, I was there -
I think I was stoned.
All our hearts saddened
when we heard the harpers play.
I don't know how long the harps cried
and strung a sorrowful tune.
It seemed like an eternity that lasted all day.
And, when it was all over,
The Worker went shopping
He'd gotten the day off work;
and the Fool found a pub nearby
and drank himself into raucous song;
And the Addicted went scouting
for an itch to be scratched;
and The Weeper cried
(and she still does)
for forgiveness for the things that she had done.
On the contrary, the Harpers were a happy lot
for they were handsomely paid
to make our hearts break asunder.
And I,
I found some speed
on a friend of a friend of someone else's friend
and made sure I would forget about the Weeper's son.
V
HUNTING
My lover has gone.
He is dead.
He's almost forgotten, except
when I listen to the song of the lake.
Now I am looking for another
At some decadent party or suave soiree,
slathering on airs of false seduction,
lingering in carnal conversations
planting seeds
dashed with double entendre and play.
I want to go hunting
and not be hunted
by some pathetic lover.
VI
THE SEASONS
The seasons pass (almost unnoticed)
I can barely remember the days,
but the nights are clear recollections -
For they were all the same.
Lying on my bed, watching the carnival
pass by my window sill
with the Weeper's son by my side,
smoking pot or taking speed
then making love
before falling asleep.
Now the season has passed.
He is gone.
Everyone has a season
that transpires into another.
The Worker he got a holiday
and ventured to Singapore
cause you can do plenty of shopping there.
The Fool, the poor drunk bastard
lost his wife to another.
She said she was going deaf
and preferred a woman's touch.
The Addicted, kept obsessing
Casting a plethora of reasons,
Any excuse to keep on snorting.
The Weeper cried herself dry
and goes to a grave every day
to lay a tribute of wild flowers
at the place where his feet are meant to be.
The Harpers formed a rock and roll band
and travel up and down the coast.
And I,
I've grown cynical about the carnival
and don't like being a part of it
anymore.
I rarely think of my season
with the Weeper's son.
I snared another lover to share my bed,
but his eyes are blue and he has a scar
in the middle of his back.
He laughs when I speak of the carnival ...
so I have learnt to ....
But I must finish here,
that's for another story as they say.
And the seasons roll on in quiet despair.
Maybe,
One day I'll sing with the song of the lake
with an uncorked bottle of rum in one arm
and then go midnight swimming
and feel the beautiful song
slapping between my thighs
And the harmonious tune
will quietly drown my senses.
For some strange reason
I remember a season past
and now I recall with hard toffee bitterness
a lament that no-one has heard ...
The Weeper's son is dead.
Flying Solo Tip 078365 : Do not let your life's story become a lament. Express yourself.