Here's a poem about a bench I sat on.The lines describe the view and feelings one afternoon.The poem reflects on my state of alone-ness.Is it only at this time of the year and day?
Yours Sincerely, POSOWOCO
Does anyone want to know what the world of a lonely bench can be like?
Anyone curious about how to gather their thoughts from a bench session?
Do you need you to hear the tale of an open and honest internal bench chit chat?
Does it mean anything to the bench to have lots of visitors?
Is it important to get to understand why the bench is there and what it can do for you?
May you want to imagine yourself sat there taking in the view and reviewing your next hopes and moves?
Ready to act on perhaps?
Alone and cold on the bench
I can see all the things I need
I breathe and watch for movement
But mostly when the trees sway.
As another afternoon passes into red
Dreaming fields under the bench wait
For a chance collision of beats
From a hunger eating away from inside.
There's room for more on the bench
Even though my lonely, slouched frame
Is sat on this wooden thought throne
A far cry from its intentions.
Nothing happening, nothing that matters
The dimness spreads like fog
But the buildings catch the last wave
Of golden tears from sunshine.
From the bench I breathe out and in
Notice the sky line, cluttering, fading
Something from that is waiting
Waiting to take and work my dreams.
13th March 1996
I got back home after sitting on a bench by the river one cold winter's day.
At this point I wrote several versions of a poem called "The Bench".
This is the final trimmed down essence of the final poem I came up with.
I mention seeing everything I need and that the bench gave me part of this feeling.
Being on the bench was cathartic and retentive and I imagined many people on it here before me.
I sat at one end of the bench and noticed there was room for more people beside me.
The one person who I wanted to be there couldn't and so the view around me took on a dramatic twist.
Nothing was happening that day where the mist would roll along the cold river.
I could imagine being in a dream and perhaps I really was.