Young Men Old

by jotadavida

Posted to Action Poetry on 2001-06-26 21:18:00

Young men old toil hard, spinning their hearts in sawdust bars
Streaming whiskey rivulets of tears, blinded by all the hard-boiled years
Their murdered cries and lotus lies wound the wood in places where water never rises
Young men old come and go drinking dry the night saloons
Rage and swear they grip the night, rent the air, shaking fists and moans
From dusk to dawn beneath the wobbly moon they roam the floors of rotted rooms
Stagger home and rise again each noon
They seek the gilded face in such a place to slake the dying thirsty parts
That ache inside the dulled and hollow stomach hearts of low-slung boys children men
These beaten children men in all the towns they crave the honey milk
Seek the friendless friend to suckle from her soothing breasts
She who always comes to smooth her silk on sullen cellar beds
Is gone again when they awake from weary restless sleep
comes the rose of dawn to make them so radiant in their retreat
Young men old pass their days and tortured nights in bottles clear as gin
Drinking bitter wine and salted ale from broken pots and splintered pails
To fill the hole that never ends

Young men old spill their souls in devil water pass away the hours,
Toil and spin to try and lift by chance the ancient sun
Make born again that hero sun
To fill the empty afternoons with light
And laughter all about the nighttime rooms
Wisps and shapes nodding shades smile all around to someone else
Nothing more than a melted holy vision in a cup raised high
To fill the hole that never ends
Sends them back to drink once again

Bolt sky blue
White cloud shades
Fields of sun-dipped flowers
Where Johnnie and Sam run to hide
Behind the hay barn tower warm and high
Where the tree green wind whispers wonders
Whistling past the creatured grass and marbled water

Ever long the morning day
That winds its way to afternoon
Dries windrows high and showers
Drifting motes of sun drop sparkles
Feeds the dampened earthen musk
Folds the hours of fevered laughter
Tilts the slanted shadows into dusk
Bends the hand that always beckons
Moves the cricket songs to motion
Soothes the feathered roosted oceans
Daylong sun descends below the hills
Mother calls and boys run home

Young men old toil and plot to break their lot of midnight sin
Yet the siren song of spirits poured drowns their will and makes them ache
To drink the drink of the day last past; they forget and then cast off to spill awake
On desert shores where wretches stir to find they fit the sallow skin of old men young
Mercy’s borrowed gift then returns them only this – the tortured song of a misspent youth

Old men young sing such sailor songs, bend low to spy their whiskered ghosts
Trudge home upon a darkened path to find their footed rest beside the toasted hearth

Then, when supper ends, old men young they drift and nod while
Death’s half-sister unfurls her claret satin curtain
Old men young they lift their bones to climb forgotten stairs
Creaking hearts in trembling hands and only one thing certain
Leads them dream full moon seas and land, far off
Sail on they sail until they pass the shoals and stagger fall til they find land again
Wooded meadows where sailors fall tumble drop to sleep dream no more of salt
But a wooden pillowed bed is
all they need for now

Old men young toss and turn, pray their souls to keep
Still and pure in time’s wide river black and deep

Old men young they plead to break that spell
Toil and spin to catch forgotten faces
Feel the lost embraces
Reclaim their rightful honor
Bring back the lost white mourning doves
Be someone
Whom someone loves again