I found him much as you hope to find anyone,
stumbling like me up the same road or same hill.
But he spied the poet cloak tucked in my sack.
Made my acquaintance with a prankster’s name.
Asked if he might walk alongside for a chat.
I gave him my own name, though I knew that he knew it,
no mistaking a fellow seeker of visionary heights,
an untouchable shaman from the tribe of scribes.
We find a comforting gait then open ourselves,
musing aloud of the making and meaning of things.
This comrade of cadence, who drills me about drilling,
he’s a rhetorical imp with nettles for kettles of fish
and scorn for the parliament where his owl has a seat.
His words are fierce advocates, deviled or otherwise,
as we walk like sentries in a political search party,
clad in shiny black hide, all snapped up and strapped.
He finds the wit I withhold in between every line.
Spars over the zen of art with a most nimble foil.
Touches the places I normally keep for strangers.
While some of our steps are taken in solitude,
I’m encouraged to hike on the path of my days
with the voice of this irreverent pilgrim close by.
We are both of us bound like mattachine brothers
in a clan that will drive time itself with our chant.
About the Poem
This poem is about a good friend and fellow poet, Scott Smithson aka Puck. A measure of obscure personal references are to be expected here.
This poem was completed June 19, 2003. It is previously unpublished in print.