He lived in a shack
Writing his poems day and night
No one read the work
Death came and the tombstone said
“Brilliant mind and tortured soul”
Robots
Devoured
Marketplace
Mass produced poetry
All that sold
Humans
Brainwashed
Read only what they were told
*
*
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cocooned in studio
decades forming clay
twisted stiff fingers
unsold sculptures
*
*
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Tiny beach hut
Leaky cold shower
Hammock out front
Island tan
Fresh fish in frying pan
Tap
Tap
Typewriter keys
Other
Days
Swim in Caribbean Sea
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Although tapping one finger at a time
Slows down my pace
My manual typewriter
Activates my creative state
*
*
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I
Scribble
Scribble
Scribble
In my tomb
She summons me for sex and food.
Working hard for my muse
*
*
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Coming into the Hermit’s library
Wife
Said
“I cannot take it any longer”
“I need to dust this place”
Armed
With a box full of dusters
We cleaned a few shelves of books
Then
She
Started sneezing
And
Needed to take a break
Saved
By an allergy attack
Until
Next time
Late night
Walking cobbled streets of Prague
Had one too many pilsners
Met a street performer
On the corner
Done for the night playing his violin
After an hour of shooting the breeze
I asked my new friend
Why is it that you are so at ease?
He replied:
“I play for spare change
I’m the only one who needs to be pleased
Some people call me lazy and completely crazy
But
Too much ambition would no longer be fun being a musician
I accept who I am
No need to try to be on top of the highest mountain”
All night with headlamp
Writing poems amongst tombstones
No longer alone
Missed my typewriter
We again together
Back to being writer
My typewriter keys
Starting to look rusty
They are still friends to me
Tap Tap Tap the keys
Rum coke typewriter and me
Deep in fantasy
Street Photographers
Silently shoot their frames of
Everyday magic
Engulfed by his books
The Hermit scribbles his poems
Before it’s too late
The Hermit Poet's Ramblings 