Don’t Let Go of Your Soul

Don't You Ever Let Go of Your Soul

by John Fitzsimmons | Fires in the Belly

Sometimes yeah.
Sometimes no.
Sometimes it’s somehow somewhere in between.
Sometimes it’s somewhere that no one has been–
no, nobody, nowhere, no nothing can end.
So don’t you let go and hope you’ll find it again.
Don’t you ever let go–

Don’t you ever let go of your soul.
Don’t you ever let go of your soul.
Things they got ways
of slipping by unless you hold–
so don’t you ever let go
of your soul.

Sometimes, man I’d wish
there’d be snakes in the trees,
and I’d just keep this big space between them and me–
I’d say no way Jose’ that ain’t how I’ll be;
but between right and wrong there’s this large mystery;
it makes freedom so hard, so hard to be free.

Don’t you ever let go of your soul.
Don’t you ever let go of your soul.
Things they got ways
of slipping by unless you hold–
so don’t you ever let go
of your soul.

Sometimes when I hear that fate’s back in town,
and it’s working the strings of the prophets and clowns;
and you’re hung and you’re strung
and you’re brung and wore down,
and you hear, Fitz, man, don’t worry,
‘cuz here’s what we’ve found:
fate’s got a chance
when you’re soul’s out of town.

Don’t you ever let go of your soul.
Don’t you ever let go of your soul.
Things they got ways
of slipping by unless you hold–
you cannot; you should not;
don’t ever let go:
don’t you ever let go
of your soul….

 

 

 

 

The Enigma

The Enigma

Black Pond is not as deep
as it is dark, dammed
some century ago
between ledges of granite
and an outcropping
of leaning fir, huckleberry,
and white pine.

For years I have paddled and trolled;
swam, fished, sailed and sometimes
simply tread water
in the night
trying to pierce
a dark, prickled sky.

Why is is that only now
have I made my way
towards the source,
through the tangles 
of bulrush, loosestrife
and sawgrass hummocks,
to this place where

I am utterly lost
and happy 
to finally be
as far as I can go?

~Windsor, New Hampshire

Supermoon

Supermoon

Last night the August supermoon
reminded me of the fickleness
of time and how
substance becomes shadow
and memories begin
to etch themselves
immutably
into the hardness
of what is
already lost.

Waiting for a Poem

Waiting for a Poem

 

It’s not like a poem
to come curl by my feet
on this morning too beautiful
to describe,
though I am looking
and listening
and waiting:

A rooster crows
above the low hum
of morning traffic;

the trash truck
spills air from brakes
and rattles empties into bins;

my neighbor hammers
his endless projects
with meticulous efficiency,

so I try to do the same:

Slowly sipping coffee
from an old mug
with a broken handle
I cast a trusted lure
into a familiar hole
and pull these few drops
of dark, still waters
into my boat.

Weeds

Weeds

 

Somewhere locked
in this choke of weeds
spread like a mangy carpet
is the hardened vine
of Pipo’s Concord Grape
he planted in an eager spring
three years ago.

Gasping for air and sun and water
perhaps it has found some way
to hide from my flailing hoe
and the bitterness of my neglect.

Maybe it has buried itself
below the transient roots
of witch grass, sow thistle,
and cockleburr
and can only wait
for another spring
bursting forth
from fresher ground.