Reading Hemingway
Smell of sea on His hear, and wind,
Strong, with passion waving a lamp,
He is poising Himself on a deck
As on scales, - He staring at land.
He has furrowed all oceans and seas:
Hundred miles and torn off lines,
Many friends, who has gone, - so He misses,
Too less girls, who could love, were deemed brides.
Scars on hands and wrinkles on face,
Can’t believe, He became a hoarhead –
Our life is for those who brave
And as patient as Angel of dead.
Well, He lit up His favorite pipe,
Then uncorked a bottle of Rum,
And He emptied it full to those guys
Whom He heavily grieved for with God.
So it filled Him like water in tank,
Brain reminded His mom and Her sight,
And their “Oldy”, who grazed on a bank,
Smell, when drinking new milk overnight;
As His father, who worked as a drudge,
Showed Him life of a dirty saloon,
How their children were christened at last,
And how sailing replaced by harpoon.
Now He looks at the gleaming of down:
Strange illusion, when bed tries to fly, -
Switching off restless light, and alone
Goes to sleep with Elysian smile.
07.09.2011