I Wonder If You Always Tell The Truth

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The Two Sisters

The silhouetted memory of echo
which distant voices remember.
Of endless sunlit evenings
and summertime’s midnight-manicured embers.

Fumes rising from the smokestack,
haven’t stopped since I was a boy.
I used to sit and watch the freight trains,
always were my favourite toy.

Dreams of riding the rails
buried deep in my mind,
now penetrate my conscious.
Why aren’t all memories this kind?

I’d bum my way down the tracks,
to New Mexico, where I dreamt as a kid.
Repeating that old Taos mantra,
“Talent is for sharing, not to be hid”.

My regards to this old place,
I’ll miss ya’ while I’m away.
Don’t worry ‘bout me tho’,
remember last Independence Day.

Remember? We sat on the hill
and watched the fireworks fly.
I’ll never forget that night,
of good ol’ Fourth of July.

Fireflies and their mischievous amber,
trailing in the twilight.
Here am I in the border towns,
my land of the bright midnight.

Music in the street,
just in time for the carnival.
At first I thought, prophetically,
someone was awaiting my arrival.

I found myself swaying,
as I moved down the street.
People were staring at this foreigner,
I didn’t care, it was a contagious beat.

Stumbling into a hotel,
five stars on the sign.
My only thoughts were of home,
would this now be mine?

I glanced at the tables,
in splendour sat the dignitary.
Regaling guests with his tale,
gulping red wine, ironically sanguinary.

I knew right away I didn’t belong,
I’m more a two star kinda guy.
Could I find a place to meet my needs?
I wouldn’t even have to try.

Drifting through dim-lit streets,
two sisters I met.
The youngest a painter,
The eldest a poet.

Not related by blood,
more, kindred spirits.
In that split-second of recognition
I had sensed it.

The revellers dispersed,
those ancient streets now hollow.
I made myself a promise,
where they go I will follow.

They lived on the outskirts,
in the hills by the desert.
The White Goddess on the shelf,
by the window a palette.

The younger, watchful over her strokes,
painted the young summer Moon.
As the elder recited a poem,
an homage to June.

Enraptured in silence,
I stared through the pane.
A summer shower had left the garden
misty wet with rain.

Of that night there is nothing
I recall more clearly,
than the kindness of the sisters
who treated me so dearly.

I remember the secrets they shared,
how they transcended the infinite.
Maybe, we’ll meet again;
Actually, make that a definite.