this path standing
this one i’m standing on
once trodden by Victorian ladies
all crinolines
now gone to nature
I took my stand here
the miles had led me to
the one conclusion
not to keep on keeping on
throwing good love no return
was no longer worth the effort
no matter of promises made
time to take stock
never mind the past
the future needs to be remade
remodelled in free
those sergeant major eyes
checking corners for dust
carpet for mud specks
kitchen for comparisons
to her spotless place
bigger rooms for size
she got a nice new lease car now
holidays in the sun on layaway
but I don’t see her laughing much
getting out amongst friends
doing the things you do
y’know like for fun
& I’m ok with what she got
I’m happy can live with the ways
we got the things we do
hoping one day she will find
her happiness too
I was talking loud
as I can do when wine drunk
aware with all tensions
as my words were not getting through
to my vino sozzled mob at the table
the death of the hippie my theme
giving in to passion writ large
the death of the hippie was an event
the Mime Troupe the Diggers
Emmett Coyote all the mommas
recognising hippie was done
over
taken up by the store greedheads
selling shit beads mandalas incense
paisley rags run up in sweat shops
too many kids had run away arrived
hoping to find a dream instead got hungry
exploited found the wrong drugs people
missed the message of inner being
but bought the fashion to fit in
never the hippie way
the substance the ideas were lost
in graphics music written words
& me you we were the losers
because there was a time when
love was all you need
& all that’s left is smoke dope
beads mandalas paisley patterns
bits of paper found
when preparing to thin the herd
promises made to her
& her
of fidelity
undying love
devotion
oodles of moon in June
romantic guff
thrown there on the line
from the low depths of self pity
anguish of being thrown over
& now?
I have no idea
of where she is
or her
no trace of the love
I put down
no irony there
in the phrases of eternal care
jealousy is a loose yellow dog
cocking its leg everywhere
shitting on any
everything
& the happiest bit
is its practitioners
seem hugely unaware
they are taking apart
from behind their gossamer veil
I’ve heard them
claiming higher ground
morality utility
doing their best
calling out
pointing fingers
distracting attention
from their own conflicted
feelings
not daring to question
themselves
for the true answers
there
you can see them still
bent figures
foraging edges of woods
road sides
picking up sticks
fallen boughs
& if a tree should fall
blown over by winter winds
that truly is a windfall
out come the saws
mainly chain these days
but the bowsaw is still present
& in minutes short hours
all that is left
are drying vines
fluttering dead leaves
to mark the spot
& the smell
from the chimney pots
of woodsmoke
the smell of home
of sleepy villages rural small towns
still in touch with the old ways
if now
they have logburners
& not stoves
always needing blacking
caught sight of you
coming out of a
downtown supermarket
as ever
your man carrying your bags
you looked ok
considering
& I wondered idle
who he was
whose money
you were drinking on now
whose car
you were slowly wrecking
walls gateposts ditches
were always your nemesis
that & putting oil in the things
I drove away slow
thankful
you were not in my rearview
anymore
it is hard to know
what is inside the head of another
the what & why of which they do
we both knew the same person
maybe loved her
in different ways
but now she has gone on
as they say in my part of the world
died departed passed
& this one must now tell people
they loved her more
was a better friend than him
listen to me I know the all of it
& how to understand
better yet forgive the ignorance
the bad part low core of this?
paid hard
for the simplest things
you know
everything costs the poor more
in hard earned cold coins
scraping the edges of my tired hands
in the giving over
for each minor mistake
I felt the lash on my bent back
pushing me along
go further along steel tracks
find something there
you can’t be here amongst us
try over again make like new
no accidents here
no missspokes misunderstands
no walking it back
responsibility is only
really there for the low
& I hear them uptown singing now
justice does not apply to me
& I’m wondering why my back teeth ache
this hot anger ebbs & flows
while downtown
only the gospel choir really knows
my very being
is scary
apparently
dark of countenance
eye
demeanour
I frighten the horses
children
women
men of a certain
disposition
in some as yet not vocalised
manner
way of doing
in the world
& there I was contemplating
the garden the view
wondering just what
was going on
me
it seems
neilbenbow 