Time for a bit of a catch-up. I did a poem yesterday but did not get chance to post it so here we are.
Here is a poem. The prompt is ‘summer dreams’ from #Soulwords.
Sticky summer dreams
interrupted by heated unrest.
Dreams of heated unrest
interrupting sticky summer dreams.
Here is a poem.
There is still blood between the paving
where he landed, boiled into the cement.
It is a site of pseudo-pilgrimage for all
those who adored him and him works.
Bright pastel slogans, photo-collages and
hand-written letters have remained tended
to on the fences.
He was always the stern man on screen, even in
his younger days, acting beyond his years,
delivering his lines with the graveled thump
of an acquired taste in cigars. Once the cameras
stopped, his smile was for everyone.
Co-stars, crew, fans in the street or the local
supermarket. He knew the price of a pint of milk.
He also knew he had the devil’s glint in his eye
and the smile to match and he did use it over the years.
The cameras loved him but his heart lay in the mirror.
There was always one though he could never
seem to get past. She was there for every rehearsal,
waiting patiently for him. Every award ceremony,
every evening out for drinks and dinner.
At first he embraced it, then quickly feared it.
After three weeks the fans stopped coming,
not all at once but slowly,
until there was just one.
A rock garden has been built on the site
now. Every day she sits on an old
park bench opposite the memorial,
ritualistically repeating his iconic lines.