From When I Grooved

girl carpet

From When I Grooved

Lately as I thought:
Can’t imagine another love
and that all who came from
the first to the last
shared something in common.
First and last – bald.
Two carpenters in the middle.
Beards or British.
Foreigners, spoke French.
Chin hair beneath the lip.
Does one just build upon?

Lately I have no dreams.
Absolutely no time to think!
Too sane, logical to scheme.
Trying to engineer this.
But when I do, it’s of my spring
your autumn on your beach.
If we had held friendship
better than our drinks
I’d visit for more than a month.
Sit at your bar. Just let me read.

Lately I have no concept
of a future beyond survival.
Wishes are washed-out delusions
Come on, let’s be practical.
By instinct, do we know our future?
In the same way that a storyteller
feels when the end is nearer
and prepares to bring on voices
to make the conclusion epic?
Do we deep-down know
When we really shouldn’t bother?

Oh, do not call me depressed.
I’m far too awake for that, my brother!
Call me loveless, uncared for at roots.
Disregarded by a family – with zero tools.
It’s OK but don’t expect me to hoot
about having a safe and secure cocoon.
For this, to tell you the truth,
Lately my vision for a lover is moot.
But what fine poems and many tunes
tell of stories from when I grooved.

Sylvie Hill 2016