Leeward

[serge gurkski]

Leeward


Drowning leeward and the surf's up
at Big Sur, with a glass of Rum
in my hand I stroll through
the garden of never kept promises
and
rejoice...

surrounded, clouded by
a flock of hot
Misses Riddles.


It's a dream, a booze-fed one.

But not too far from reality.
It's close to being real.

I so suggest
to trigger me to start swinging again.

Leeward is where the winds end
and I've been blown off and away

enough.


(to Boz Scaggs: Miss Riddle obviously ;-) )

[rowens]

"It's close to be real.

I so suggest
to trigger me to start swinging again."

To give critique, I say it's hard, because I get the rhythm of what's going on here. And the music of the language as it's spoken.

But I guess it could be "It's close to being real..."
And though the

"I so suggest
to trigger me to start swinging again."

Might sound a bit awkward, that is the way people in the South say things with a certain tone that fits here.

And besides all that, I liked the poem.

[serge gurkski]

thank you, Rowens

yes: being.
I fix that.