Arkadash
we
often sit in cafés and talk
read
new poems to one another
dip
dainty spoons in porcelain
sugar
bowls & muse on how
dehydrated
flower petals curl
around
the lip of their vase
courageous
memoirist to my
plainspoken
poet – me with my
memento mori, (reminders of
death)
& you with your vaunted
ironies
& ability to hold a pencil
between
your toes & write your
name
just as good as if you did
it
with your left hand – we fit
I
can’t shed the Devil & you are
convinced
the Dark Stranger is
soon
to make an appearance &
butter
your hazel eyes blurry
our
kinship cobbled together by
an
otherworldly luminescence
we
banter in the Skunk Hour
derange
& re-arrange scribbles
on
napkins until the breakfast bell
I
call you arkadash & you call me
orospu for swiping the
last blob
of
clear delicate dandelion jam from
the
cracked glass dish for my scone
***
While holed up in my writing room yesterday admiring my new antique brass ink well, listening to music, looking for inspiration among my bookshelves and floor stacks, I came across a the Turkish word for 'friend'. Unable to edit but restless enough to move a pen, I wrote a poem using the phrase as the title. It was fun. It helped me sleep, the writing. If you're reading, I won't reveal what the second Turkish phrase means. I'll leave that up to you although I'm sure most of you who frequent the Teapot and employ common sense will get the gist.
Tragically Hip tribute show with my buds tonight at The Seahorse. I look forward to stepping out of daily life for a few hours and into music that I love. My ears are hungry and my heart needs a little healing, music saves.
Happy Friday!
Nic
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