Edit 7: Reflections in St. Augustine

[alonso ramoran]

Reflections in St. Augustine 
 
I. For the Artist 
 
We promised, while our throats were parched 
and light was bent to seem  
                                    like it could quench thirst,
we'd meet here again. 
                        I never learned how to draw a drink  
from these ancient cobbled roads and  
 
I am years in debt. I have no change to spare that kid  
                                    from twenty years ago,  
just pocket lint and longing 
                                                that guides this limestone 
fountain water's ripples into
                        your new laughter lines.  
 
II. For the Gallery 
 
I wander in the unknown workers' stretching steepled  
shadows of this town, where my parents honeymooned.
I'm older now than they were when their studio became  
a storage for winter clothes, discarded toys, and forgotten  
paintings. It's time that I learned practicality when there is  
no grey of truth daubed on my palette. 

Edit 6: To Display

We promised, while our tongues were scorched  
and light was bent to seem  
                                    like it could quench my thirst,  
we'd meet again. I never learned how to draw a drink  
from parched earth crevices and  
 
I am years in debt. I have no change to spare that kid  
from twenty years ago, just pocket lint and longing 
that guides this limestone  
                                    fountain water's ripples into  
your new laughter lines. I wander in the unknown  
builders' stretching steepled shadows— 
 
in St. Augustine, where my parents honeymooned;  
now I'm older than they were then. Their painting studio 
has become storage for   
                                    winter clothes, forgotten toys 
and art. It's time I learned practicality when there is  
no grey of truth daubed on my palette. 


Edit 5: To Display 
 
That date, pinky sworn on while our throats
were parched, was distant warping light that
I never learned how to drink from and
I am years in debt.
 
Reflections ripple as my face becomes  
a stranger's, glowing next to yours. I wander 
in stretching steepled shadows, cast by 
unsung ghosts, as a wayfarer far from home. 
 
Now I'm older than my parents  
when they surrendered moonlit flings  
to the garret's cobwebs and dust to wipe 
our tears and dress our scrapes. 
 
It's time the painter learned practicality  
when there is no grey of truth  
daubed on his palette. 


Edit 4: For Galleries
 
Time bends and deceives promises 
made when we were headlong and young,  
as pools of light elude rawboned men.  
Will lettered years have taught me how  
to siphon water from light? 
 
Reflections ripple, altering this face into  
a stranger's, glowing beside yours. I wander 
in stretching steepled shadows, cast by 
unsung ghosts, a wayfarer far from home. 
 
Now I'm older than my parents  
when they surrendered moonlit flings  
to the garret's cobwebs and dust to wipe 
our tears and dress our scrapes.  
 
It's time the painter learned practicality  
when there is no grey of truth  
daubed on his palette. 


Edit 3: Romanticism, Abandoned
 
Time bends and deceives promises 
made when we were headlong and young,  
as pools of light elude rawboned men.  
Will lettered years have taught me how  
to siphon water from light? 
 
Reflections ripple; wishes conjure  
your face, glowing by a stranger's, who 
wears my bleach-stained sweater. I wander 
in stretching steepled shadows, cast by 
unsung ghosts, a wayfarer far from home. 
 
Now I am older than my parents 
when they surrendered moonlit flings 
to the garret's cobwebs and dust to wipe 
our tears and dress our scrapes.  
 
It's time the painter learned practicality  
when there is no grey of truth  
daubed on his palette. 


Edit 2: Romanticism, Abandoned 
 
Time bends, deceiving promises  
made when we were headlong and young,  
as elusive light pools to lost and thin men. 
What major will teach me how to siphon  
water from light? 
 
Within its rippling reflections, I recall 
your face, glowing alongside another's; 
you had found someone else. I wander 
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast 
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home. 
 
Now I am almost as old as my parents 
when they surrendered moonlit flings 
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe 
our tears and dress our scrapes. 
 
It's time the painter has learned  
practicality when there's no grey  
of truth daubed on his palette. 


Edit 1: Romanticism, Abandoned
 
Time bends, deceiving promises  
made when we were headlong and young,  
as elusive light pools to lost and thin men. 
What major will teach me how to siphon  
water from light?  
 
Within its rippling reflections, I recall 
your face, glowing alongside another's; 
you had found someone else. I wander 
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast 
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home. 
 
Now I am almost as old as my parents 
when they surrendered moonlit flings 
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe 
tears that streamed over scraped knees. 
 
It is time the painter has learned  
practicality when he does not have  
the grey of truth to dip his brush in.


Original: Romanticism, Abandoned
 
Time bends and deceives promises  
made when we were headlong and young,  
as light's elusive pools to lost and thin men. 
What major will teach me how to siphon  
water from light?  
 
Within its rippling reflections, I conjure 
your face, glowing alongside another's; 
you have found someone else. I wander 
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast 
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home. 
 
Now I'm almost as old as my parents 
when they surrendered moonlit flings 
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe 
tears that streamed over scraped knees. 
 
It is time the painter has learned  
practicality when he does not have  
the grey of truth to dip his brush in.