His head full
of Irish myth.
The here & there
of this & that
bits that stick
in the mind
for as long as
forever is.
Sticky backs hitching
a ride on a boy's blue jumper.
This the emotional
archeology of me
sifting what's left
of times
long long gone by
in the time of his own
long long gone byes.
A winter of '63.
That 67-ish summer.
An Easter
that brought death.
There was a woman
(was there a woman?)
turned into a pool
turned into a fly
blown away by a wind
her name eroded
by a sea of time.
And the legendary heroes
like little boys
building a snowman
that would be the biggest
of the biggest
and
that the women would
compete to see
who could pee
furtherest through this
man of snow.
Some things are
not made
...to forget.
Oh such
artifacts of thoughts!
Such shards of stories
come back
to see what
kind of man
the little boy
would become.
He smiles as he remembers
& un-remembers
the such
of such
the unforgettable
calling to him
in mythic voices
the tallest tales
still easier
to resurrect
that his time
of 9
when he was going on
10.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem