The Bench


My friend, my consulate, my rest,

I’ve often found its warmth as my

soul was restless from its heavy

load each day.


Who sat here before me? Who wept

between each breath one took.

Thoughts so delicate, events so

painful, losses, gains, sorrows.


Only this bench can feel each

vibration from the person

sitting upon its weathered frame.


Van Gogh who listened with

one ear, Poe who bent back and

looked towards the heavens, Oscar

who delighted in frolic,

Hemingway who straightened

his back with much pain to

contemplate and digest each

word he pondered.


Sylvia lost in trance, stars were

her galaxy, depression her

mistress, oven door her epitaph.


Keats the one who sat and

mysteriously gained his footing

while penning another thought

about life.


Oh this bench cries out to my soul

Vincent let me heal the wounds and

please rest awhile and dream.


Let your mind wander and be among

others who have sat upon me

with the burdens of life.


© Copyright Vincent Moore 2012. All Rights Reserved.



The Bench — 10 Comments

    • Your welcome my poet, yes I believe we all find our benches in time, I’ve had a few choice ones in my time and left my mark. Hugs

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