Topic: Black Bog Juice
I havent thought much about music or poetry for a while. Had other things taking up my time. I haven’t dropped into chordie for a while as I haven’t had much to share with you on this good site Here is a poem written in my unconventional way. I hope it works. Stories shape our understanding of ourselves and our world.There is a universality and importance of story ,poetry and song in all cultures. I guess that is why some of us try to write poetry and songs. Sometimes I look back on my old stuff and think what was I thinking and man that didn’t stand the test of time. This is a sort of none rhyming poem about a group of guys I meet most Sunday afternoon’s for a beer and chat. In a comic rush of blood to his head, one of these guys decided to read out loud some old poems off mine off his smartphone it was so bad it made me want to vanish from sight. I laugh now at my feeling of self-consciousness, shame and awkwardness in that moment which is unusual for me as normally I feel confident in myself. I started writing this Sunday night about that awkward moment when I got home and decided to finish it of now as it is a wet Tuesday evening outside here.
Black Bog Juice.
Differant shades of liquid brown at a pub table.
The white lines around the inside of each pint glass receding throth no longer at high tide.
Young waiting staff smiling while flitting around with trays of drink and food.
Us old men sitting on high stools enjoying life.
Friendily bar tenders many in their prime just out of high school.
Young fast guns ready to sell another fresh glass of drink or some food.
We good old Kiwi blokes sitting at a high table near the pokie room..
We shun the romantic lower to the floor style of table and chairs mostly used by families and lovers.
Floating past us air filled with the the hum of voices from other parts of the bar.
Rugby and some other sports on the television screens around the walls with sound turned of.
Teletext turned on in place of sound
Some patrons mourning a loss other celebrating a win of their team.
This our regular Sunday school is our little parliament of the people
Chatter turns to reminiscing about old cowboy heros on tv and in the movies.
The music of Howlin Wolf just audible now coming out of the sound system causing my foot to tap.
Men might not be able to multi task but we sure can multi listen
Minds in unison on one subject at a time each voice presenting differant ideas,and outlooks.
Changing into another gear our thoughts move to things written by bards, story tellers,verse makers, music composers.
The oral historian in the group glances at words on his modern smart device
Looking at his machine with strained eyes, he starts reading the black bog juice that is my poetry.
The words that he is trudging through making no sense, just a raincloud hanging over me.
A past sin returned to haunt me.
A seed of an old ideas sown into the topsoil on my head.
Those temporary weeds that once flourished.
Not the beautiful flowers I was hoping for.
Over amber nector.
Those little goldern nuggets retrieved from the past.
No longer sparkle like diamonds.
All that remains is bits of rusted words.
A narrative born out of experience.
No longer relevant just a past attempt at romanticism.
Once where there was a surge of excitement is unfertile soil.
Originally those words were meant to paint a picture that reflected the truth of my life and put some light on what I wanted everyone to see.
Words that came from when I was struggling to say something rather than struggling to be noticed.
Now I feel like a beaten chess player who thought he had the game won..
Hearing my words from another time coming from the other side of the table makes me miss a good move.
Bang out of the blue he hits with a checkmate I can’t escape.
Obvious as daylight in the shadow of this bar we hear with pain my old written words.
Our bar room narrator making them no longer of any relevance to me.