There were years when the sun came up red And the ground was wet and cool in the morning And I woke up on some of those mornings Determined to tilt windmills So I went out there and I tried. And what I have learned is that the windmills Not only do not move: They do not care about Some ignoramus on a nag with a Papier mache lance that falls apart At the first hint of rain Pounding and pounding impotently At foundations that have withstood Volcanos and earthquakes, Hurricanes and revolutions And Communism and democracy. Now the sun comes up as soft and yellow As an imitation butter patty And nothing about me grows thicker or lusher than before Except the hair on my eyebrows and in my ears. I read and I listen and I write; Still, I do those things But my lance is crumpled in the corner, completely forgotten And my nag was happy to be put out to pasture Two decades ago. Listening to Mary Gauthier and listening to Lucinda Williams. Reading Edgar Allan Poe and Ana Akhmatova. Not really doing anything, though. The sun has melted me. The dust that swirls has swallowed me up Little by little, day by day. There are so many days and they are all the same. I bashed up against the windmills Wishing to tilt them But with the sheer obstinate repetition of it The windmills tilted me.
About the Poet:
John Tustin is currently suffering in exile on the island of Elba but hopes to return to you soon. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.