A strange guy

He tangos on a tightrope, blows smoke rings in a hurricane

Smokes dope with the pope, tames the brain of the insane

Harvests a bushel of clouds, raindrops picked from their stems

His prayers gathered out of lathered old church hymns

He rides in a wheelchair that's broke, tires, deflated, had no spoke

Lacking hot air he had no spare, a little flat on the blown joke

Prophesies made off the label of an old jar of marmalade 

Although worst, let someone else go first, to receive second aid

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Reminds me of an old black man who sits in his chair at an intersection in Carbondale panhandling for bucks. Probably to make repairs to his chair because he knows repairs to himself will do no good, he is beyond that. I love the fourth line. I remember those old hymns...sang along but was never sure why.
j.

[Soren]

Thanks so much Jacob ya can't blame an old rebel for having a little fun with poetic license. Appreciate the read and words of support

[poetic swan]

I really love your poem — the imagery is so vivid and creative, and it has this wild, surreal vibe that pulls me in. Some lines are a bit mysterious, which makes me want to read it again and think deeper. Great job capturing such a unique mood!

[Soren]

Thank you so much for your review of this poem it is most appreciated.