By: John Drudge

The Quarter

Their love was secure
As he walked
From the couch
To the kitchen
And when she looked up
And smiled at him
While she worked
On a puzzle at the table
He felt it
He felt it when
She said nice things to him
And even when she didn’t
He felt well
And wrote very well
When their love
Hung in the air
In the small apartment
On the river bank
With a view
Of the pitched rooftops
Of their quarter

###

On the Surface

The modern soul
Has been alone for a century
Atomized and reduced
Dissected
And severed
From its humanity
Dwelling blind
On the surface of the sun
Blown apart
And strewn over
A disorganized landscape
Of simple longing
And a desperate desire
To become

###

The Magic Circus

We strive to live a life
Of our own accord
With a deep understanding
Of our own mystery
A mystery transcendent
Of human inquiry
Beyond the inevitable
Scars of living
On the far side
Of the whirlpool
Where we say no
To the serpent
And kill the dragon
Away from the magic circus
Where the last trick
Is performed
Alone

###

The Road Before

We come alive
In a web of uncertainty
And venture out
In search of the structure
Of our rebellion
A connection
Of common experience
Alienation
Through common struggle
A narrative of discovery
With its plaudits
And triumphs
Reversals and changes
And the redolence
Of a fallen springtime bloom
Where ideals
Crash hopelessly with
The accepted order of things
Dadaists of adolescent angst
In a fecund of potential
At the cutting edge
Of our birth
Waiting for dreams to arrive
Outside the cold water flats
Of our youth

###

Troubadour

To put aside
The passing moment
Beyond temptation
And the eager nature
Of desire
Trading fortune for toil
An umbilical
To the essence of our joy
Where our eyes
Welcome to the heart
The lost troubadour
And love leads
To revolutions against God
The touch of Eros
And agony
Impulses of nature
The burning point of passion
And the drinking down
Of one’s own
Slow dying