Poetry 'n Prose


He remembered incredible cities
Where he’d existed, yet never really belonged
Even his childhood was root-less,
Moving from country to country
Picking up scraps of languages, curious customs,
Hopes cherished (later abandoned),
tenuous friendships, and fleeting love affairs

Though life had not been so bad
He would sometimes wonder to himself
What it must feel like to crash in a regular bed,
With the warmth and familiarity of someone beside him.
And he was mildly puzzled when comfortable people
Told him how they envied his freedom.

After years of drifting, it was all he knew
How to be un-rooted, unattached, somewhat aloof
Not from social inadequacy or awkwardness
Nor from a fear of commitment
and intimacy
(he came close once or twice),
But through a distance that emerged
between himself and the world,

As distance grew further through time,
happenstance, and a deep penetrating sadness,
He eventually became settled,
in that state
of melancholy, that he learnt to accept
As a ‘way’, as human fate, as a necessary longing
For a home beneath the stars

Stars which gave meaning, reason and faith
Stars that illuminated the dark corners of his mind
Where the gaping chasms in his
Could be filled with spontaneity and laughter
Filling the void between himself, the stars,
And every other drifter.

By 67paintings

A dialectical site of poetry, painting and the odd musical excursion into the unknown.

2 replies on “Drifter”

heart of a gypsy my grandpa used to say…
beautiful words you have spun…
Thank you for sharing….

Your made me smile, indeed a gypsy heart is a song that is mine too, not that I’ve ever been able to capture this musically. Maybe one the rhythm and the road will find me and take me one a journey.
Mary, many blessings to you.

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