Whitman & Me

John Gregory Evans © 12/24/2019 9:56:47 AM

A troubadour, unshaven clean, and fedora leaned half-cocked upon his peak, prone to rumble with word and pen, like a modern – day slam, keen on wit with terms in cheek, his pen thus dipped, prepared his sheet of parchment gleamed.

Whitman with visionary pen in hand as he writes of sights, and smells, oh, the land! His quaint

smile and hands on a polemic hip trigger some to a violent core, but

Walt does more than hate.

To hear his voice, to view his air, a stature of morality, ne’er wound t’wards despair,

his shape and form with word and ink,

gentle eyes, an easy-going wink, composed in harmony, his fiery darts I’d share.

To brush your cheek during times when tears shall toil, composed as duos we shall stand,

but Walt just smiles with words upon lip, we walk together, hand in hand, walk these bridges man to man,

“I am with you,” dear Walt, “and I know how it is,” we cross the waters on Brooklyn Ferry, 

yes, Brooklyn at last! and “the sun half an hour high,” ebbtide.

and you with poetic scripture in hand, the transparent you, calm, wit and airy.

Her people, too, you were so fond to greet, helping a black man continue his journey.

I’d say, a daring yet honest feat, as you were known to sway, so many nights and so many days, I’d accompany you warm, keeping you with me, within your own way, yes! to sight and, to see.

To know a man and to love his soul, to worship his words, and to commit to him whole,

Man, to man, and soul to soul, the beauty of love is selfless you know.

Ne’er to impasse his throbbing soul, nor stand upon his grave-lit knoll, I’d honor his friendship I’ve aspired to have, Whitman to love, Whitman to know, our words we’ve sown, maturely grown.

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