Johnny B

In those days when we were young, Johnny B,
we had another perception of life and death.
We did not understand that even me and you
could pass away in a shorter time than a lightening.
We counted on to live forever on this beautiful earth,
and we were happy because we did not know anything
about the challenges the future would bring us.

These happy times were a long time ago
we could be lucky before sorrows and grieves catched us up
and we had to realize that even the handsome ones
had to face ignorance and discouraging looks.

Sometimes, my old friend, I have been looking for you,
and I have been searching your traces wherever they could be.
I have roamed around old places, where we used to walk,
in an effort of trying to find you, or just some remains
from something you left behind while running away
from the anxiety you always have been nourishing.

I have also my own anxiety, rooted in the terror of having lost you,
since you never respond to my attemps to hear your voice again.

I do not even know if you still have any cell phone,
may be you pawned it for a short feeling of happiness,
when you could feel the devil's pee soothen your pain
from a broken heart, a liver disease and a kidney failure.

Last summer, in some happier days, both for you and me,
I got your number, scribbled on a piece of cigarette paper.
I noticed your trembling hand and your sweat
while you tried to concentrate about the task of writing.

When we both were in the twenties,
we were hunting pikes with air rifles
in some lake nearby your home
a graying cottage in the wasteland.

We did not hit any big fishes,
but we found a bleeding hare nearby the lake
laying in a forest clearing, like it was waiting for us.

The hare was bleeding out of the nose and eyes,
which was strange since we were in the wilderness.
May be it accidentally had eaten rat poison
which some hunters had used to get fox fur?

We carried the poor herbivore into the house
and carefully placed it on a newspaper,
it laid like sleeping in front of the fireplace
which we had fired up only for comforting a hare.
At least, it got some warmth before it passed away.

We buried the hare under a birch tree,
just outside the house where you used to live
until you grew up and left your home and family.
We placed a stone slab over the carcass
before we filled the grave with soil
so the dogs should not be able to dig it up.

I must admit, old friend, Johnny B,
even with a touch of sadness
that I have been in doubt about my fear
to not see you again before I die.

May be you have forgotten our conversations
about everything and nothing, happiness and sorrow,
love and hate, admiration and joy, and everything else
people like to tell they use to search the meaning of?

Once again we must realize, in the seriousness of life,
we are but shallow water and white foam on windy seas.
We act like unprepared creatures and imbecile ones
when we hand over ourselves to others without any protection.

So what about today, are you ready to resume
or are you suffering in convalescence expecting to leave?

I can assure you that my true wish is to meet you again,
if only for the last time, to show my esteem and respect.

Let us reveal the scars from a life in agony,
where some are from accidents and others are self-inflicted.
The marks on the outside are easy to spot,
but what is inside is not possible to discover.

The innermost wounds will never grow enough to be scars,
they are constantly bleeding a pulsating blood to no avail.

I am old now, Johnny B, my true friend,
you are one of few I have trusted in my life without fright.

I can not move so free and easy anymore,
so do not expect me to appear on your doorstep.
I am not able to travel as I loved to do in former days,

but perhaps you want to show me the honor of coming here
to the other side of the earth globe where I live
with my beloved wife and dear daughter?

I pray to God, that He would keep His hand over us all,
and in misty illusions I can make out outlines
of a garden full of fruit trees, some beautiful sea shores
and a lonely cabin in the cold wasteland.

Photo: Stig Riemmbe Gaelok, 22 March 2018,

in Laya, Baclayon, Bohol, Philippines.