Wolf and the Owl
Poetry, Lyrics, Translations
and Musings by Alex Etchart


By on Friday 14th September, 2012

In an alcove held fast by dreaming genie lamps and unwearable bracelets that have long lost their gleam lies an ancient relic.

He’s the wise old man from a fairy tale you never thought could be real.

He has a way, I guess we’ll never know how, of enticing lost souls into his lair.

Maybe it’s the energy-memory of the almost avalanching mountains of semi-precious antiques, hovering somewhere between worthless and priceless on the precocious gravity’s edge.

Maybe it is just that smile. A knowing smile. An eternal smile not dictated by the curve of his mouth at any particular moment in time.

Maybe it’s that pause as his patience drinks you in, sitting awkwardly whitely and westernly on the potential bench that impossibly emerges with implacable modesty from the rubble silverware.

Maybe it’s the absence of the ticking clock of money or of time better spent elsewhere.

Maybe it’s that he starts his conversations half way through, no need for purposeless pleasantries or fuss over intent or trust, just cuts to the yearning and learning undercurrents of every human exchange.

Never a moments pause whether calm silence or intense talk
He’s always reading, absorbing, actively listening, taking it all in,
In his laid back posture and calming cavernous eye sockets
You can be fooled into thinking he’s almost sleeping
But really his entire soul is a vibrating hymn.

Maybe it’s because he saw the water in Sophie’s eyes.
He stood fast her attempts to pass it off as a fleeting thought for the suffering of her friends.
He cut straight through to her pain in order that through awareness she allow it to wane.

Maybe it’s his laugh that needs no vocalisation, for it echoes eerily pre-emptively off the metal mysteries dangling like bats from the ceiling.

Maybe it’s because he said there’s fire in my eyes.
And I couldn’t but believe him.
For I have never felt more certain in a stranger’s presence.
He proceeded to solidify a life load of my traumas
Into a labyrinthine concoction of words still soaking in to this day.

Maybe it’s because every time I go back I feel like I’m sharing a cigar with an old friend.

Whatever it is they all leave infected with his hopeful gleam in their eye, his knowing smile upon their lips, and a poem of truth etched in their hearts.

I have seen them. I know it is true…

Blog owner, singing/strumming person, word speaker, community arts make-happen-er, eco-baby.


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