Four new poems by Dan Abernathy

Dan Abernathy
Dan Abernathy

My Mind Has Forgotten to Age

My mind has forgotten to age
as I have lived my life
within the continuation of avoidance
towards living in default.
Default is what was easy,
but never what felt alive.
From within my journals I look back,
finding the broken pieces of yesterday.
The sights, thoughts and recollections,
now allocated to was.
Turning each page,
I seek a sanctuary of where I’ve been,
longing to find the place to rest
the glove of being
while who I am walks on.
There is no room
where my family rests,
miscalculation and migration
have filled the family plots.
I think about my finial moment,
feeling misplaced and somewhat lost,
as I do not know
where my tombstone goes.

The Parade

I walk naked
in a small town parade
with nothing but a faded flag
wrapped, flapping
and popping behind me.
No one notices,
no one cares
as I step over horse shit
and remember the gray colt,
the one I raised from birth,
is now nothing but glue
holding memories
in a young girls scrap book.

Rendering an Epitaph

I write notes and ideas
on damp cocktail napkins
while a jukebox pours inspiration
into the late night
and early mornings.
I wonder,
if any will be found
and read
before my epitaph
is rendered complete,
or will it be written
from family members
that do not know me,
the ones that have forgotten
who I am.

A Portal to Nowhere

I sit in an old
smoothly worn, uneven chair,
crafted from a type of unknown wood.
Relaxed in the heat of shade
drinking warm Victoria Beer
and warmer Flor de Cana rum.
Across the murky street
I watch a faded red door,
a door with no sign, is open.
A portal to nowhere
but a brief release of what is.
I watch men walk in,
greeted by girls with no smiles.
As one walks in,
one walks out,
combing his sleek black hair.
I wonder
why they never comb their hair
when they walk in.

Dan AbernathyDan Abernathy. Welcome to the chaotic and often strange life of a Quasi, Clumsy Spiritual Warrior, Dan Abernathy. This Renaissance man is known as an outlaw poet, artist and purveyor of words, a junkyard philosopher, and a vagabond searching for a pure hedonistic meaning for his of life.

His voice, be it in his words or in his art, is a collection of oddities, fascinations, desires and obsessions – a road map of sorts, tracking the life of a man that can’t and won’t fit in.

“His poems are a bit like a well fingered bowl of mixed treats in a dark bar – filled with some salty Charles Bukowski, some chewy Hunter S. Thompson, and a little zap-a-hooty sweetness ala Dr. Seuss (tossed in just for the kiddies…er, ah, not that I’d recommend this one for any mother’s son.”David Vaughan, an artist, writer from the Pacific Northwest coast.

Abernathy makes available 98% of all his perspectives, be they fluid and random thoughts, or meandering and incomplete rants to the masses. They other 2% he keeps to himself, archived and a gift for the scholars and naysayers to decipher. Abernathy has published two books of poetry, Looking For Security While Wearing a Loincloth and I Don’t Shave on Sundays. He is also the Editor/Publisher of The Contributor, a monthly newspaper of free speech, art, travel, the spoken word and other oddities that should be revealed. Abernathy can be followed by clicking here…

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