Memory Lame

Every now and then I will have a little musing that lends itself to rhythm and rhyme. Sort of a Shel Silverstein-esque bit of verse, or perhaps something Bilbo would chant to young Frodo – happy in what he deems to be a clever way to teach a simple life lesson. I find these pieces to be too direct and simple at times to lend themselves to music and certainly more so to call them poetry. Nonetheless, I find them entertaining and mildly thought-provoking. Here’s an example. This one woke me up yesterday morning and spilled out onto the page before I could even get out of bed.

Walking down Memory Lane

Flashlight in my hand

Paths here of murky pitch

A stained and broken land

Sometimes like a nightmare

Sometimes soft and sad

In every other window

A good time I once had

Friends along the benches

Cats between my feet

Sex on the front porch

Bands upon the street

Think I saw my Grandpa

In his big old Cadillac

Saw one too many ladies

Begging to come back

Smoking cigarettes

Stolen packs of Kools

That’s me off in the bushes

Skipping out on school

Lane grows a little lighter

The longer that I walk

The hardest parts to talk about

Are the first houses on the block

And if you find your way

This place gets pretty nice

The folks are really friendly

The houses full of life

It’s funny how we do that

Keep the bad up in the front

You forget what sits behind

When it’s cluttered up with junk

And now I’m at the end

A sign points for one way

This is the city limit

That brings me to today

I think when I return

I’ll come in through the back

And sit awhile within the light

Before heading toward the black

I know they’ll always be there

Brooding, doing time

I’ll do my best to free them

From the ghetto of my mind


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