I was twenty-one years when I nearly wrote this poem.
I’m fifty-eight now but I won’t be for long…
ready or not, life hurries on,
and my youth, that was green, turned to brown.
Hanging out in a garret, misunderstood,
I was a rock, I was an island.
Other people bowed and prayed
to the neon gods they made,
but I turned to Simon and Garfunkel
and, with my headphones on,
I took some comfort there.
The darkness was my friend,
but I still longed for someone with whom
I could harmonise till dawn.
Eventually I found April, come she will,
to break my heart,
and shake my confidence daily.
I was afraid to get up to wash my face
in case I found, when I got back to bed,
someone had taken my place.
In the wasteland of my youth,
I turned to the wisdom of a poet and a one-man band,
and I still carry the reminders of every song
that cut through my sound of silence.
The poems I mean to write
still fade in the night.
And many of my words come back to me
in shades of mediocrity.
But, like emptiness in harmony,
it’s good to be homeward bound.