It's Friday, Let's Go

The poem was about a letter, or actually more about the use of letters, or not.

It was well-received, which is how we like it isn't it, well it is for moi! Most certainly.

This is Friday, a day of so many times; good times, youthful times. Payday times in the clay works; where some men immediately gambled away their entire week's wages.

Image courtesy of Veronique Estie on Unsplash

Last night's 'education' film was Shadowman, about the American artist Richard Hambleton. As with most of these programmes it began slowly, but grew into a not to be missed story of an amazing life.

Then to be followed by Mindful Escapes on the BBC where Andy Puddicombe slowly and smoothly narrates over the backdrop of quite beautiful, and amazing images from nature.

Now it is America by The Nice which plays on the stereo. Yes, that particular Friday was a long time ago!

Here's the letter poem:

Home Thoughts From A Broad

Where do letters sit

In the hierarchy or the continuum of our lives

If in that four AM correspondence

You had your eye on the main chance

Did the outcome you hoped for come to fruition

Is the letter a commencement of a two-way communication

Is it voyeuristic to look back on our own sensual words

To insinuate on other peoples most intimate writing

Are we out to show love, or care, or to set our stall out

Make the newly shared arrangements clear and unequivocal 

Does the letter establish any form of contract

Could it be counted as part of the foundation

On which all other relationships are assembled or interlaced

Do we, by committing pen to paper, make any other commitment

Does the pace and certainty (with the time for thought)

Give the parchment more gravitas than the spoken word

When we whisper ‘I love you’ are we aiming for it not to be overheard

Are we to be so bold as when we seal the envelope with a kiss

Having left the words ‘I miss you’ inside for eternity

The spoken word, the written word; what precedes them? 

Do our first chanced glances look for the make of the fountain pen

Do we feel for the weight of the stock

On which our lover's future scribes will be formed

Are we required to have been lovers

Before our true feelings can make their way to the postman

For him again to deliver the myth of physical offerings

Into your consummation of their erotic suggestions

Is this the end of the letter's journey

From wondering how you are

To making it necessary to take your underwear to the cleaners

Is this the culmination of literary thought

Pencil stain; pen, and ink, and semen

Mail that sails by itself, nude through the ether