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Drinker's Poetry
Bergström / Slattery
by Fredrik Bergström
Time changes, I think I evolve
I learn a great many things
But do I learn anything at all
I look at my past and I assess the future,
I feel like I’ve cheated
Though I worked so hard to learn what I know
Complete dedication, yet lack of control
Lost in my meandering
My focus no longer assured
Pin down what I’m lacking
I’m lost on the road
My work is denial, not as pure as it once were
If I decide to change my life
I would make my family poor
I hate to see them struggling like I saw once before
Promises made since last times demise
I sacrifice my purpose
Not to end up there twice
Truth, denial, laughter & pain
I have to remember
Time allowed, my focus can still be reclaimed
by Fredrik Bergström
The artist looks at me
Finds the essence within me
A few lines and written word
Catches all that’s seen and heard
The subject grows, evolving mind
Nature changes as will the lines
True face and true faith
Rituals, wake up, breakfast on the go
Time flies, hurry up there’s something you should know.
People, closest friends
Wish to see and want to go
Never mind your goals today
You’re needed here more than you know
Time pass, I will grow
Never thought the change would show
______________________________________________
by Robert Slattery
The Horizon.
shimmering,
shimmering, shimmering
and beyond,
out of sight,
the factories ,
sitting idle-
quiet-
silent.
They came from beyond the
horizon, beyond the shimmering;
numberless men out of the
vast land. Brickmakers,
bricklayers, builders, laborers,
and factory men.
They created the factories
and filled them with lights,
sounds, and the residue of
a million toils.
Only the buildings remain-
forlorn-
empty-
desolate-
-- crumbling stacks
-- rotten beams
-- cracked foundations
Once busy rooms
-- long silent.
The men who toiled
-- long dead.
The families
-- long gone.
Only the buildings remain;
standing in testament to
an agotime of pride and
importance - but now idle.
And the everwind
pushes and flows
gently
gently
gently
through the empty rooms
out the broken windows
pushing and flowing
gently
gently
towards the shimmering horizon.
December-1997
Note:
The above poem was inspired by
(what I thought was) a rather vivid
image in the last paragraph
of Chapter 12 of Desolation
Angels by Jack Kerouac
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