MORE VIGNETTES FROM HIS WAKE-in search of Brian St Ass- from Beatrice

Tenbrooks Smythe the second was 90 years old or more I reckoned, he showed up aided by Tenbrooks the 3rd, neither had ever been nice to Godfrey and as always both Tenbrooks fought to have the last word. When handed a cold drink the old man bellowed,I guzzle whiskey I do not sip it ! Bring me a well boiled tractor,lad, and kindly refrain from stroking my whippet!!!.

.OH MY.We hoped, among the poets and vagabonds who knew Godfrey Brian St  Ass may show up, and a mystery added to the solved box. How he loved the free life did our vagabond Godfrey,  his world without borders or limits or distinctions of class, he was a lifelong seeker, and he long sought the poems of Brian St Ass.

Twas a winter night at an open mike  Godfrey first heard St Ass. Amid coffee house  slurping,bean grinding and clinking of glass. The lights were dimmed, and up to the podium book in hand strode St Ass

.Brian read,words and images Godfrey could relate to and understand. He read of looking down on wet pavement at night, carrying sacks of potatoes home,  he read of a ship made of butterflies, gypsy tailwind on open sea, blowing love gently to fill life’s sails and setting the butterflies free. Enthralled by the poetry  in his old kilt sat Godfrey.

Too soon it was over ,and every poet stretched, finished coffee and clapped. Brian St Ass shy of praise, slipped off down the hall to the loo and never came back.

.. And over the years  in shop or bookstore, open mike or coffee house Godfrey went past, he oft would inquire if anyone there had read the poetry of Brian St Ass, no one ever had and most people laughed, reckoning no normal person  would go by that name. What became of Brian St Ass?

Could somewhere his words be celebrated in song?  In some damp, nasty place is his book moldering, holding up wobbly corner of table or shelf?  Brian St Ass passed into legend as has our Godfrey himself… Against my better judgement I read this poem of Peruvian Clementine, roughly deciphered  from a tatty old postcard that was in his suitcase,

Shake the pail my love  toss scraps and wheat,  Poule’t Romance Amour Amour!! In the snow we dance on our chicken feet, in the snow, the snow we dance, dance in our great large under pants!!.

But someone else came to his wake, someone I never expected to ever see again.   At the close of his wake, sunrise of a new day, Wurzels Hurled, stories told, nothing left of the sandwich tray. I wandered alone cup of coffee in hand, where under a pear tree sat a strange man. Border Collie dog by his side, I,d noticed him briefly the day before  standing as far from the crowd as he could, I knew  then who he was, I remembered him as P.T. The Good.

“Godfrey never forgot you  you know” said I as I sat down beside him. His black and white pony standing patiently tied. P.T. and I sat watching the sun come up slow. He said” we Knew each other briefly so long ago.”.. sunrise warmed the fields of the old farm in promise of plenty, lit the fire still burning in P.T’s dark eyes, time waited for us then as Godfrey believed at such times it would, waited neath the pear tree for me and P.T. The Good…


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