I had spent the day rereading Reinhold Niebuhr.
The skies, appropriately a deadly grey,
were curtaining Spring, who, like a troubadour
withholding song until his patrons pay,
was silent, and I, chilled, went on a tour
of friends and pubs and places one can play
a parlour game, or undergo confession,
or in some other way combat depression.

The fifteenth stop, if there had been that many
(it was I thought the last for me till dark),
brought me, detouring, leagues south of Kilkenny
and to the coast: rude boats, a little park
and a rugger pitch deserted as too fenny.
I thought I saw a dragon disembark
from the furthest boat, but it was nearly dusk
and hard to see, or care. All was subfusc.

Poetry lightens shuttered hearts,
engages jaded minds.
Its lines illuminate cold nights,
ameliorate hot days.
It celebrates the best in us,
retells that till it’s true.
Forever here until it goes,
each poem preserves its space
in thoughts as visible as wind,
as loud as falling snow.

Home from the towers hiding suit go in village
big shirt and jeans custom scuffed leather boots
Rolling Stone issues with O’Rourke a must read
Punch in the great years of editor Cohen
seeming like old Times humour now gentle
music like thunder on bridges on way home
after smoke after taste faux friendly noise
bars well known and never forever returning
grimaces stranding in stand in emotions
first light not all right quick love making all right
off in a daze breakfast snack bars and papers
up in the tower a suit among peer groups
and papers those always and budgets and bytes
random lunch restaurants over tipped waiters
cars for the trip back and tipped back and snoring
next morning meetings prepared for and boring
systems arising and changing the world
ways not imagined or cared about much
systems devised cause we could and we did
we can and we do it we do it again
thunder like music it’s all rock and roll.

When ‘why’ deserts me and now rye’s anathema
and wordplay fails to keep emotions out
I grow sombre, still, elated. I am a jumble.

My memories fill and empty what was me
– or ‘I’ – I still search language for a clue
to what it’s all about – until, relaxing,
I join enjoyed memories and flow.