A Brown Paper Bag

This is an idea I had for a song some time ago and while I still like the melody of the song, I thought perhaps it could work as a poem. I brought it along to my debut of the poetry open mic event but decided against reading it and took the option of reading a poem by Kavanagh which strangely enough complemented other readings of works by Irish poets. I have made some small adjustments but the idea is pretty much the same.

A Brown Paper Bag

I can’t see myself without you being around when the blinds have gently been let down

And the sounds of the sirens outside are getting close.

You hum that distinctive rhythmic sound and take care not to heat up or burn out

And I see you as an open umbrella both inside and outside.

The lights are always on when you’re here

The party’s never losing legs and crawling back home again

And images abound to my mind and tempt me with the light of beauty

That’s seen enough to be almost real.

I can’t see myself without you being around when the time has come to gently wind down

And the beating of my skin is getting fast.

You show me another magic world and keep me up to date with every piece of it

And I see you as a black cat on the street whatever that means.

The link is not so clear to me when you are here I could be anywhere.

The time gets swallowed by the day when you are here I could be any age.

I can’t see myself without you being around when the lights are slowly going out

And the cities arteries are clearing out.

You pour yourself into a glass. I empty it dry when my throat is raw

And I see you as a brown paper bag on a rainy day.

Lost

When I look out my window, I can normally see proud Wawel Castle perched in a very stately form on top of Wawel Hill but at this moment all I can see is a thick layer of fog.
It has covered even most of the Park Inn Hotel with visibility beyond that impossible.

This type of weather fascinates me. This blanket covering us creates mysteriousness and a sense of anticipation for the unknown that can suddenly break through this misty barrier and into sight.
Walking across the bridge that usually bears the brunt of my curses is no longer such a chore but a passage into another place that I have been to numerous times but now feels like my debut visit.

Of course, I am writing this still in the comfort of my warm flat and soon I will have to venture outside and the dampness may not be so thrilling but until then I can look at it from here and ruminate on what is behind this blanket.

Travelling Lone

Morning comes with a rustle of plastic.
Whispers break intent and open sensitive eyes.
Zippers like small engines are followed by the release of light
through opened blinds which say its time to go again.

City names all soon sound the same.
Distinguishing as challenging as recording quirky traits:
a passing handshake, two kisses on cheeks, words that terrify
next to those with the power to enchant.

Carrying around a black bulk cancels attempts to sink into the passing crowd.
Paper plans, eyes do 360’s dangerously attracting the eyes of veteran tricksters.

Four wheels, 8, more. Carriages clicking through flatlands,
On through mountains past watered beauties
soon to be followed by dry hollowed out nutshells.
Faces known become strange and exchanged for new arrivals
which in turn fade out of view.

Thoughts mingle, clarity lost to confusion as refreshing as lemonade with ice.
Away from the ringing, plans can be scrapped and promises not made to be broken.
Dates are lost in satisfying ignorance.
with concerns tapered to the next Where? When? How?