Monday, April 16, 2018

the old homestead

The dust settles unconcerned upon the weather worn cobblestones.
Paths long bereft of feet, first this way then another they roam.
A breath of wind stirs the dainty tendrils of a solitary wisp of fabric
sighing against the eternal onslaught of time and entropy and neglect.
The walls twist slightly, bowing with slowly diminished strength
As the earth claims its own.
And young boys that venture there do not see the lives and the sorrows
lived within. 
Stopping, casting jaundiced gaze upon the lives spread there before them,
Vulnerable and exposed, they laugh and jeer and do as boys do.
Sticks protrude from out of lighthearted fists and the harsh cacophony of shattering
fills the humid air and rolls out across the pastures.
Splintering jolts of violent energy explode out into the atmosphere
As youth and vigor are released in easy anger, quickly dissipated. 
With a sigh and a yell, the boys move on.
Off to discover some new fantasy, some pursuit worthy of their nubile attentions.

The dust settles unconcerned upon the weather worn cobblestones.
Paths long bereft of feet, first this way then another they roam.
And the splinters and the shards, though cast away, relish in the vibrancy
Ponder with delight the raw and unchecked vigor absorbed there.

Sunday, April 15, 2018

midnight in sink's canyon

long there in the restless night the wind whispers
through the delicate tapestry of pine and quakies,
speaking nearly imperceptible utterances.
heard by few
heard by none save the scurrying feet of one accustomed to the voice
perceived, but not heard by this mortal ear

the dim lights above a deep and mysterious blanket
both warm and callous
the blood that flows, yet unfathomably distant.

the distant din of chilled water
flinging itself joyously from the cold peaks outlined in the starscape
echoes and soothes as if the very air around it
is a salve, drawing out the bile and infection of long days

the regal cry of a wolf, of many, wails low across the canyon
eliciting a primal chill as predator is aware of predator
a dying bed of coals glows red against the ageless stone
and the rich smell of earth and smoke and the mountain fills the soul

Wednesday, April 11, 2018

the seeker

So gone are the flitting days of youth
When all eternity stretched out before and
the time was ample to repair
to rebuild
the brokenness.

The days stretch still ahead but brief,
A flickering flame still strong
but without the infinite horizon
to buffer against the mistakes
the oversights of before.

And you ask of me, what is it I seek?
What balm do I desire to sooth my soul against
the distant but inevitable winter's cold?
What do I seek?

I have wondered at this.
Over many a waking midnight it has rolled
like silent thunder across the fathomless landscape of my countenance.
An unseen thorn burrowing into the skin of my soul.
What do I seek?

In the silence I have discovered it.
Hiding there in the darkened and recessed
corners, the ante-chambers of my heart.
I know it and will have nothing but.

I seek the one who, upon truly finding
Upon discovering the wellspring of her soul
Upon settling into the peaceful ease of her days
I awake utterly absent the notion to seek
Only to explore side by side.

It is said this is a dream
and well may it be, but I cannot settle.
I will have the one who douses the fire of seeking.
It shall be this one, or none.
Should she not be found, the jagged and rambling line of my days
shall follow its lonely path toward that horizon.
A deep and somber and satisfying tome in which is written

I have known interesting days.

Saturday, April 7, 2018

letting go - written sometime in the mid 1990's

I know it's best, though pain I feel
The sun can go and hide.
A fuller, empty, emptiness is living now inside
This darkness I once cursed, despised,
This day I chose to keep.
As light burned out a bit too bright
When stopped within my reach.
And higher flies it even now
I cannot hope to get
I cannot burden wondrous wings
I can simply sit
And pray that someday you may see me here
Though I have naught to give.
I though I could not live without
Now I'm content to live
Within a world of slowly passing dreams
Where someday one may hope
One perfect wish a dreamer dreams
Will someday find a home.

Wednesday, April 4, 2018

Letter to Yesterday -written in spring, 2014

It was early.  So early.  We were new lovers and the world was right.  I awakened early, as is my way, and lay there, still savouring the afterglow of our passion the night before.  The moon was shining through the window and it lit your face in a delicate glow that transcended time, space, emotion, everything.  For that simple moment, for that instant, that sliver of time, I knew that I loved you.  I was smitten.

You were all that I had imagined a companion could be and then some more.  So witty, so full of life.  A childish imp frolicking about on the fields of life, sneering at convention and the naysayers.  You represented all that I thought I should be, all that I wanted to achieve.  I could see me there, hoary head flecked with liver spots, rocking away on a porch with you by my side.  An old man, happy and fulfilled, companion by my side.  I knew it was to be.

...but the moon shines and it changes its face, does it not?  There were flashes of red, glowing coals of fire and brimstone that blistered out unchecked.  I percieved them but did not comprehend them.  Oh to have had some wise old codger slap his wrinkled hand upside my head and say "Boy! That one is trouble, open your eyes!", but there was none.  When those coals popped out I acted as if they were nothing.  I ignored that voice inside.  

Then the house, so delicately placed with the ace of hearts here, the queen of diamonds there, that house began to crumble.  The paradise I thought I knew began to change into a wasteland.  That beautiful serinity I saw in the moonlight was shown to be a mirage and the demon that dwelt below raised its grinning head and laughed at me as I sank into its entrapment.  

...and here I sit.  drawn, tense, undone, scattered.  The beautiful book that was to be written became a hideous scrawling of pain and remorse and blame.  

Someday I will rise, a phoenix? No.  An owl perhaps.  Maybe a sparrow.  I will rise on the wind, little but my own skin and feathers to keep me but free none the less.  Everything taken from me.  Everything.  The tragedy though, the tragedy is not that I am bereft.  The tragedy is that I have cast aside my pearls, my treasure to fill a void that cannot be filled.  I am undone, martyred.  I have drained my blood and my tears only to have them tossed to the wind, for when I am gone.....when I have blown away with the flotsam of discarded memory, what I have offered you will be forgotten as if it never was.  
Gladly I have bled for you.  ...but my blood is in vain..........

Monday, April 2, 2018

empty roads

What then is this silence?
This loss?
This beautiful visage of nothingness?
Like a cool, spring wind it flows gentle
fingers across the nape of my neck,
Tingling in anticipation, in delightful remorse
Tense, yet saturated with the exhilaration of anticipation.
Of what does my countenance wait? 
It cannot be told, or foretold.