Hey Bob Dylan

Hey Bob Dylan

Poetry

William S. Tribell

 

 

 

That I may with all do discretion, make my own slight confession

It was Tennessee in mid-July just because Johnny Cash said so

Whiskey, Johnson City and the right direction to Cumberland Gap

Not to stray, but by-the-way, let me be the first to officially fix that

That is to say, the trucker got high and was going the wrong way

Blunder on the mountain, no peace in the valley, no love tomorrow

Milk white headlights highway grey,  a penny whistle costs a dollar

Today, reflections, the replacements and everything that can last

Bleeding tears, moonlight, angels and fools, rusty Silvertoned note

Years stripped blue tangled contemplations of broken tambourines

Like slowly yellowing surplus Sears mannequins, forgetting today

Trading tomorrow to make a deal, wanting to feel, smile and steal

Forever and back, song of the poet, lamplight gutter glow, so slow

Seeming, but actually fleeting, trying to stay out of that coming rain

Stoned with the vandals, clowns in the alley, sunshine, sidewalks

Darkside shadow, in the shade seeking shelter, the coming storms

A pot of Earl Grey, a lemon and a lump, because I like it that way

Somehow it’s always been forever all along from the start to stay

Only coffee or tea wondering when I leave where to bury my heart

Nashville skyline, under the hill, New Orleans, neon sublime hue

It’s always the same waitress, a love affair, just to see her hair fall

Free, the changes, the waitress, the librarian, the painter, the muse

The D.A., public domain, the universal mind, never really different

That same picture of the same photograph, what we find in others

Your Tempest, my ghost, that lost laughing lady, long ago, her love

Getting away from ourselves, locked away easily hurt, burnt fingers

I just can’t make myself care that you don’t care anymore, no fault

It’s just ain’t me either babe, I think thinking twice is real nice, sure

But it’s still alright, lights out, traveling on, my wasted time, toy guns

Precious like Van Gogh’s tripping on all the yellow, safe and warm

I still have dreams too, she smiles through a fence at me, revisited

Every time that whistle blows though man, yeah you got that right

 

 

William S. Tribell is a multimedia artist. Perpetually nominated for fancy poetry awards, he has contributed to journals and magazines around the world. His new collection of poetry, “A Duke’s Mixture and a Hill of Beans” received sponsorship for submission to consideration for Pulitzer Prize Nomination in Poetry and has been accepted. An oversexed ne’er-do-well starving artist type with erratic sleep patterns, a penchant for travel and selfish over-indulgence, Tribell blames most of his character flaws on not receiving enough hugs as a child. He thinks sushi is great, his favorite color is green and Koala bears freak him out. 

@WSTribell
https://www.instagram.com/williamtribell/

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