Monday, October 20, 2014


At the waning of the shadows on these humble feet I stand
In contemplation of the creeping fingers of the devil's hand
Awaiting with impatient tempest rolling there within my mind
Of the things that have been stolen, things that are rightfully mine

Of the words and glancing gestures of the never spoken things
Of the moments ticking quietly from out the hidden things
Of the simplest of grazes of the quiet of embrace
Of the tiny little nothings of this great immortal race

I have walked upon the mountains that do never shed their snow
I have peered into the precipice and watched the water flow
I have sat in holy reverence neath the mighty white oak trees
I have bathed the blood of evil there in waters cold as these

There's a twinkling of the heavens looking down from long ago
On a moment stretched to breaking by the sins that no one told
And I'll be damned if I will pay the price for all your tepid deeds
Or trim excess from tainted briars grown from your unholy seeds

And though the fetters have been set and long ago was lost the key
Though the fire burned away the face of spirit there in me
Though the callous walls of providence have cast their fated lot
Though the sickness has infested and the carcasses they rot

There's a glimmer of defiance that will not be shuttered now
Taste of purest contradiction before which the gods do bow
Where the light is searching frantic to condemn these blessed deeds
I will turn and, rustling whispers, disappear into the reeds.

Monday, October 13, 2014


and there the silent ringing in the silent weeping ears
feeling weighted by the thoughts of things, the deepest longing fears
telling tales that do not happen, list'ning softly 'neath the lines
spinning, weaving, stretching, pulling, dulling, softening in the mind

for the wicker in the basket is so brittle now and frail
and the windows cracked and broken let the wind slip in and wail
the safe places once protected offer nothing of respite
from the freezing droplets mirrored in the darkness of the night

in the darkness of the heavens in which voices are so lost
in the vastness of the void, rested here on rock and moss
in the glittering of crystaliz'ed vapor on the peaks
in the beautiful destruction where the liquid vi'lence sinks

in between the pages of the vagabond's sad tale
in the places where the unaware will flounder and will fail
where off into the distance in the vast and lonely wild
in the craggy steep, the lonely keep, past long and empty mile

Where the little people look and see the mountain meet the sky
where the timid do not wander, but in warm slumber there they lie
Where the tortured earth projects its bones and fell the voices cry
In lonely silhouette of earth and stone, 'tis there am I