In The Absence Of Presence Poem by beresford mitchell

in the absence of clouds,
under the united nations,  

    a crowd gathers

friends converge,

a family comes together
to remember an old friend,
wordsmith and storyteller,

a mythological leader of humankind,
taken into battle across the continents,
storming hellbent across the seas,
circling the globe, realigning it, pointing the sun in his direction,
striking into boardrooms of conservatism and polished mahogany,
the wide open spaces of minimalist "just too cool, cool",
stared down by the generations,
the factions,
the hipper than hip 'black on black in black',
the windsor tie set that never seems untied,
the not quite casual, two button casual smart,
all with the icy eyes, chiseled stone faces awaiting to be seduced or to be the seducers,
brushed aside, whilst
arriving with his entourage,
his refreshment tents well stocked with the spoils of victory
and the liquid trinkets of welcome,
his courteous valets with the warming eyes stand at the ready,
the booty unleashed from the large black,
shiny, leather bags of yesteryear, overgrown now,  
outdated in form, but never in content,
a victory in the making.

a phantom of sorts,
the liberator on the precipice,
anguish averted.
ships sail to the next welcome port.


as the world moves on,
one must look at the program
to see who's standing here,
in memorial
and has come to bear witness.

to take a walk
thru his large, big assed rooms,
wonder, at your own pace,
in your own order.


come for the voice,
the voice that will never be silenced,
the voice that whispers in your head,
who's tone only you hear,
and remember in your own way,
that still, a lifetime later, compels you to move on,
to advance,
to live to fight another day,
here you stand.

in the absence of.....
the man.

perhaps, in the absence of flowers,
but not in the absence of memory, or love.

love for the opera of the man,
for his world beating prompts,
for the ballet of the man,
for his art form, the multi-artist,
for the presence that is gone,
but never  leaves,
invisibly felt,  
pressing you down,
not by its weight,  
but by its healthy demand,
infiltrating your imagination,
magically whispering, "re-invention"
lifting you,
up, higher,
still higher
in exultation,

spirit rising!

reappearing with every Bossa Nova,
every breathe of Elis Regina, every strum of Tom Jobim,
every hit, every kick, every coke! ......….
every time, you hear the word feeling,

in the absence       of the man:

flowers.
moonshots.
presence.

compelling.

cool when tinkling on the ivories,
cool on the poets stage,
cool in conversation with advertising,
cool when silent,
cool in portuguese,  whilst tripping in spanish,
imbibing in english, humming in japanese,
overflowing with the world,
luxuriating with endless pools of "hey Manhatten, Here I Am" librettos
leaking out of his well traveled,  
sun bleached,  loyalty granted - loyalty received,
culture gathering, border demolishing,
globe trotting,  concorde fueled,
human experienced, tested, tried, true, worn with pride street smart pores...

in the absence of presence,
presence felt,
presence remained,
presence, like his beloved coke and international team....
endured,
always,  
forever.
forever present.

Marcio.

you can't beat the feeling!