Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

The Peddler

(more old shit from last year that didn't make the first team)

There are people and occupations that demand respect though why I'll never know. I guess it's them what made the rules.

Then there are the others. Those not regarded or noticed like an old tobacco stain on a grey shirt. You try to rub it out, then you just shrug and ignore it. I've always kinda liked the peddler.

no buckboard or horse
just a crazy ol' cur,
a calico cat,
and a dirty bag
of faded green

he didn’t come in
on the dust of others
but through the bramble
and along telescopic streams
bordering the dreams
of others misfortunes.

a strange loyalty
these three
of no past
nor future

he knows a fiddle
from a farmer who
had need of a mule
and a fiddle
was easier to lead
and nothing to feed

he would trade here,
buy there,
sell as needed
learning the trades
of necessity
along the way
of the way.

a little hard bread,
a little tea,
a little whiskey
some for she

and some for me

he knew cards
and how to win
he knew tricks
and how to entertain children
he knew women
and the ways of their wants

he never feared the night
unless in town
he never felt the heat
unless in town
he never felt hungry
unless in town

yet to the towns
he went.
to buy, to sell
to play
to a necessary gain

the calico would disappear
for days at a time
to collect his scars.
while the dog knew only
his shadow
and the length of his stride.
but the fiddle
contexts them all
and told the land
of their passing
in melodies mostly haunting.

they painted pictures
as they went
pretty pictures
while mapping the land
of empty,

with dreamscapes plenty

the blacksmith
bends the iron,
the clerk
tends the fabric
and the preacher
keeps them honest

the peddler
births a poem

from a heart full of spirit

eyes full of watching

and a lengthening