RIP Poet

R.I.P poet

golden painted stars littered the bar ceiling,
a feeling of old England like the time
my Opa and me creeped the streets
and railways through Soho and Edinburgh
sipping drinks like the one I sip now
on this night,
the death night
of an unknown friend,
a writer,
a poet,
a traveler,
a lush.
I sip in his honor, for I wish I knew his brain
rather than his face— though it was a handsome face.
he taught me to read
to roam the road,
to keep roaring through the night,
to scream ‘yas!’ with all my right might.
I keep his writing, his spontaneous, delicate work
in my brown coat pockets and in my suitcase.
my torn, worn, ragged shoes like his in chapter four
hang on my knee where I write,
as he writes in delight
on his forty first
party in enlightenment.
R.I.P Jean Louis
Written in Ashland, OR 2010

Categories: Nostalgic Poetry, Poems About Poets, Travel Poetry | Leave a comment

Post navigation

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Create a free website or blog at

%d bloggers like this: