Looking at The Blues

by r. nuñez 5 months ago in surreal poetry

Tired of The World

Looking at The Blues
Ready to Blow Away

~

What thoughts do we suppress in that expression of resignation?

The Spoken Sigh

I hear a silence ev’ry day,

As if the world has turned away,

~

And I smell rats inside the wall,

Who wait to see me when I fall;

~

I taste the sweetness of a rain

That goes around the arid plain,

~

And what I touch and what I feel

Seems all illusive and unreal.

~

There is a third eye in my mind,

Aware of what I cannot find;

~

And there’s that other extra sense

That feels vibrations on the fence.

~

I tire of the world I see.

Why is the world not tired of me?

r. nuñez, 9/2013

~

Fading Into Purple

You found something better, and it doesn’t come loose.

~

The blues is not necessarily a bad place to be, as long as it’s something from which you plan to walk away.

Here’s Looking at the Blues

You can keep on waiting till the sun goes down,

You can curse the dealer till he comes aroun’,

It won’t stop the tension… it doesn’t pay the dues;

And when the waiting’s over, you’ll still be looking at the blues.

~

Well, you loved somebody, and they loved you back,

Then they loved another, ‘cause you lost the knack;

You found something better, and it doesn’t come loose.

It doesn’t really matter, if you’re just looking at the blues.

~

You can keep on running, you can try to hide,

You can take the pony for another ride,

When the wheel is turning, you get to pick and choose;

You pick an even number, ‘cause you were looking at the blues.

~

Oh, you raised the banner, and you raised your voice,

Then you raised a rally for another choice,

And you still got issues when you peruse the news;

Well, you fade into purple, but you’ll be looking at the blues.

r. nuñez,1/2014

~

Fading Into Time

the harmonies that seasons bring

~

The mist of spring is an analogy, referring to that time of one's early youth, the spring of one's years. As we grow older, the memory of those years begins to fade, as if dulled in a mist.

The Mist of Spring

On the first days of that summer,

Passions rose in throes of thunder;

And dancing to an offbeat drummer,

I viewed the world in waves of wonder.

~

Looking back when I am able

From the first frosts of a winter,

I seem immersed in myth or fable …

The memory, a shattered splinter.

~

And, wherever I have sought them,

Love and Truth have been elusive;

Such mysteries, the hues of autumn

Have shown me little that’s conclusive.

~

Yet, there is music in my soul,

The harmonies that seasons bring;

With gratitude, I approach the goal,

And songs enlighten the mist of spring.

r. nuñez, 1/2006

surreal poetry
r. nuñez
r. nuñez
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r. nuñez

I am a shamanic priest who loves to write stories, poetry, and songs. Retired, but still helping people, animals, and the planet.

See all posts by r. nuñez