This day I pondered on a poem brief..as in my grief for Godfrey, spent summer hours by the water, sitting on my worry stone. No, not alone I oft felt him beside me.And in the poems came in that formed his story.
I did not read them all right away, like Beatrice I stowed them in a box for rainy day. With Gar’s raggedy school atlas on my knee, with ginger-nuts and tea in Turquoise Chair I’d read. Like Godfrey the stories came the round a bout route to me.
A whistle blew, traffic slowed up the block , the Blue Bridge was raised as a tug chugged under it. It passed my rock towing a load, someone had chalked in letters bold- Cinnamon Rose. Was her name so fine, they wrote, pretty name for a great wide barge, heavy laden with cement, she is a barge and a true love of mine. And though the words would rinse away , forever with the wind and spray beyond the harbor’s shelter..all who read the poem would remember, a concrete barge called Cinnamon Rose, and that someone, somewhere had loved her.
A Janitor wrote to me, a Mr Ranhag, found a poem of Godfrey’s in a bin bag. It was left in a cattle truck that gave him a ride, to the U.S. border, Montana side. Godfrey always fancied walking that invisible line, so he did. As it happened the truck driver’s kid, took the poem to school for “Show and Tell”.She read it, a good laugh was had by all, teacher pinned the poem to the classroom wall.
There it hung until summer holiday, then with all other papers was thrown away. That poem was ‘The Lonely Rubbish, subject matter a loner, a janitor, I Igor Ranhag could relate to and understand. It was written and signed, From Godfrey, on a brown paper bakery bag. And I left it folded by the jam and ketchup, at the table by the window, overlooking the highway, in Bertha’s Cafe.
But yes I keep a copy, on my fridge, neath a pineapple magnet to this day. Did the poem ever reach you earlier Worzel? I was only passing through Saskatchewan, I hope who next came upon “The Lonely Rubbish”, saw it not as random trash and passed it on..
. Not often, but on occasion it was asked of me. Why did I never set out on the road with Godfrey? He was destined from birth to roam, as I was to create a home to write his story. And to ponder on this wisdom, #33.
The 33rd Wisdom of Godfrey – Like a random poem left to read. I blew on a dandelion gone to seed, and hope that what all that my breathe disperse, will journey to someone who will add a verse. Write published work or on wall of loo, set those words inside a journey, it’s all good, whatever moves you, from Godfrey.