The Not So "Miserables"

      Blues with pool balls; one of us had played the song to smooth out his nerves after the long evening of work. We sat around the dark wood table, in the dark dingy bar, wearing our oil and soiled work clothes.
      We were a boisterous bunch but no one seemed to mind; a little extra energy always did the place good. I never saw ourselves as regulars, though we visited often, but just tired souls looking for a spot to make our own when we collectively sought the company of other "miserables". As it may we had become accustomed to the caricatures that always seemed to be there.
     The regulars, kindred spirits to ourselves, were middle age lives as erratic and irregular as our own. Sheltered by the same roof, warmed by the same liquor, it was a communion for those who are awake at night.
     These gatherings for us were moments where we could talk and unwind; our joviality not so much a genuine emotion but a necessity. Our jokes not too funny or wit that great but after some mental lubrication it mattered little, even the most reserved would eventually partake.
     But tonight things were different; we talked little and looked at each other even less. No conversations could be heard. Only the dull thump, then thump, then thump of the dart board pounded through the room. Maybe it was the music that made us so low, or that the last few weeks of overcast skies and harsh winter winds had taken its toll; no matter what the cause each of our number felt it the same. Yet we were happy, exchanging pats on the backs and words of good darts. It was good to be with friends who worked as hard as you. It was especially good to have friends at midnight.
     The laughing was steady, the beer good, and the melancholic spell over us continued through the night. It seemed the evening would dwindle down, and we would make our own ways, when one of us spoke. His words solemn and slow. His eyes reaching and grasping all our attention.

"So is this it?" a pause "Is this life?" his eye brows raising with his questioning voice.

There were no replies around the table, only the repetitious raising and lowering of drinks, covering the awkward silence of our voices.

     Then as if all at once chuckling began around the table, then turning to laughter. The mood lifted. Somehow we all knew.
      Our songs ended and the jut box cut back to the radio, dropping us in the middle of some auto tuned vanilla trend of the month. After that no one left and we were able to have fun, becoming our usual boisterous selves until they kicked us out at bar close.

Sketch

A Sketch, something fresh, Not just poetry and a bluesy lament.

Woodland Dusk

Do you know the feeling at dusk,
(exiting some familiar woods)
nearly visible through the vegetation
a field you know to be, the sky your
mind sees, appearing only as strange shapes.
A disjointed scene. The borders blackened by
leaves and branches, but within the landscape
filters through, a mosaic of colors;
as the Sun sets a yellow layer,
orange another, far beneath
a dark receding green.
No longer sky, sun, and earth but
Nature's own collage,
fragmented "modern art"

A farewell to Arms

Sprawled across the couch he read,
The last thirty pages,

The author he knew,
The story of course could
    have but one end,
It was a crash to come,
The finale would rend,
    How could it be another way?

The last twenty pages, hoping
it would not be, hoping
not the pragmatist's dream,
But it went on each event unfolding,
Each paged crossed,
The tears choking.

The last pages brought to close,
That truth of life,
That finality know.

And with the book closed,
His eyes watering could not be held.

He had his last smoke in the
cold winter night,
The helpless feeling of
watching a show,
Unable to prevent, to circumvent,
the inevitability of loss and death.

With a flick and a twist he was back inside,
slid beneath covers and
heaved one sigh.
He did not dream that night and
made his peace and "farewell".