La Poeta

a young girl poet I never really met
lived three blocks away from me
not knowing I loved the secret words
she wrote unseen unpublished kept to herself
I longed to know her heart and read them
masked by father sister veils
convention kept me from her
goodmannerswrecked intentions

and now from nagged back of mind
emerging from a pleasant chat dream
I strain my ear to hear her tune
a matter more of feeling
than of painted sounds
step carefully on each letter of
ordinarylifethen:
passionbetrayalasbsencepassionsqualor
betrayalupheavaldivorcedeathbirth
like grains of slipping sand
to read her in her chilly landscape
burning logs lombardy
in relatively calm continuance

far away but closer now than ever
unveiled countenance burning bright
the simple string of letters – art
contain the key to mystery and meaning
unseen things that seem familiar
speak through her voice
poor woman she is become muse to me
passions boxed unlocked and freed
from waiting to keep waiting

when I was a boy standing
in bitter gulf stream wet cold air
on golders green road in london england
in middle of the winter
a coffee shop among the shops
roasted coffee beans in the window
fans above the windows pumped
the heat and smell of roasted beans
on me from above into my senses
made me warmer than I had been
since leaving texas

two cups of coffee vapors
passing through her lips into her
have warmed my bones again

©2010, Chris Fillebrown, All Rights Reserved

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