The Haunted House Upon the Hill

Left upon the hill in ruin, aged beyond its years in count,
stands a house where terror reins and nightly screams of horror mount.
Ne’er a soul has lived there since long before the paint has peeled,
yet ghostly apparitions drift in shadows and throughout the field!
Its windows blank and broken softly glow at midnight’s call,
while screeching cries of mourning echo through its vacant halls!
The organ in the parlor stands as relic to its richer past,
yet late upon a full moon night maniacal chords come loud and fast!
Behind the dreadful music, between the ghosts at window’s light,
beneath the mournful screams of grief an evil laughter fills the night!

Oh how it sets my heart to shudder! Oh how my fears recoil my skin!
Oh how my bones in terror flutter and chase me back to home again!

Ne’er a living a soul has witnessed, for those who’ve gone have not returned,
for once within its halls and doorways the living flesh is taken, burned!
Yet some have claimed a glimpse in daylight, when quiet the house seems to resplend
a calmer tone of living, a relic from an ancient wind.
They claim the claims of rotten horror, when through the vacant windows seen
the blood upon the organ keys that softly growl, low and lean.
They claim a cackled cat sits by the marble stairway’s rotting rail,
they claim its eyes glow red with fire while guttural moans transcend to wails.
They claim above the mantle sits a portrait of a frightful man,
whose eyes are wild and vivid, whose sneering grin states, “Off my land!”

For those who’ve made such claims, they say, have placed the miles twixt them and here,
for not a living local soul will claim they’ve seen much more than fear.

High upon the hill of fright stands a grand and ghoulish sight,
where horror bends the midnight’s air and feeds a terror to those who stare.
A haunted house of huge proportion, a portal to an evil space,
a house whose iron fence gives notion that nothing should we dare displace.

So in the village all abide to steer away, to steer aside and never bring a question,
never try to reason why, but grant the hellish mound our fears and to our curious minds, deny!

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Filed under Halloween, Poetry

Where First Snows Fly

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Between the hills of time I rise to meet the last of autumn still,
paused at moment’s pondering, with cup in hand near lea and rill.
The morning air does call me to kiss my love, my fall, goodbye,
to trek the path to timber’s edge, to meadow’s cirque where first snows fly.

So gather what I need and must, I set my path to cairns I trust.

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Between the hills of time I walk along the rill that whispers still,
I leave the lea behind me with grateful steps to bless my will.
The grasses dry, and seedless,enwrap the feet of aspen groves
whose spotted bark stands white and bare, midst ruddy leaves heaped up in loaves.

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aad

The summer’s scrub that once was green stands burnt in tarnished autumn red,
portrays a pillow sweetly laid in meadow grass for winter’s bed.
The silent breath of morning prays undisturbed by wind’s caress,
yet joined by quiet prattling of falling leaves released to rest.

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As the hills in confluence meet, the dell’s denied its fold,
leads me cresting rise and roll to stand at valley’s longest hold.
In the distance stand the Massives, the granite Kings and Queens of Earth,
that draw my journey westward in hope to witness winter’s birth.

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As stream’s companion through the valley, I step in quiet contemplation,
drawing every whisper in that speaks anticipation.
At Massive’s knees the valley ends with guarding alpine fir,
whose dense and stretching boughs deny the slightest wind to stir.

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So to climbing stream I must, to lead me to the cairns I trust.

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Above the stream’s sharp climb I find a path that deer and elk must know.
In steps of theirs I follow, ‘til only echoes far below.
There I find the higher road that very few have seen.
There I rest within the sight of Massive King and Queen.

aaj

Through alpine thick, luxurious, I trod with gypsy song in heart
and sing until the green wood rings through echoes harmonized in part.

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As through last twist of trail I climb, I rise upon the final crest,
where blowing snow does kindly greet and hide the Massives grey in dress.
I turn my face from stinging snow as wind whips cold toward autumn’s eye,
now caught between the Court of Kings and crystal azure sky.
Before the stolid cirque I kneel, courage facing King and Queen,
I beseech a moment’s council and beg the sun to grace the scene.

At their feet the marsh stands still, reverent yet commanding,
as I in drying grasses claim the truth of where I’m standing.
In whispered tones and crystal light, winter’s voice asked why I’m here.
With gracious bow and nod I said, “To find if winter’s edge is near.
I’ve come to seek the point of flux where sun and storm cast crystals blue.
I’ve come to vow my love of life and give my thanks to all of you.”

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In sudden hush the clouds withdrew! The sun in glowing rays did stream
upon the cirque and meadow’s keep! Upon the face of King and Queen!
Awestruck from my lowly stance I raised my face to God above,
whispered kindly, “thank you! This moment blessed! This life is love!”
Gently in the warming air October’s court drew softly blue
and stood this life in sharp relief against the growing azure hue.

As winter’s force is master in October’s court of King and Queen,
with bows and some relenting, I turned to face the alpine green.
As I walked my path to home, I thought of Autumn’s fade,
knowing well her work was done and winter’s bed was surely made.

Today I gathered what I must along the cairns I’ve come to trust.

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Filed under Mountains, Nature, Photography, Poetry, Universal Soul

Autumn’s Ebbing Call

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On edge of autumn’s ebbing call
I pause to hear a solemn hush
that breathes in whispered stance between
sweet fading fall and winter’s rush.

Beyond this colored glory,
the burnished hues of tarnished gold
rouse the empty field in story
when verdant dell and rill still rolled,
when cottonwood and willow cooled the heat of summer’s grace,
when fawn and doe stood still in wonder among the shadows green with lace,
when calling birds stilled the current of summer’s flux beneath their wings,
when comfort came at river’s edge, when brooks would play and gently sing.

At edge of autumn’s field I stand,
witness to the season’s steep,
where browning grasses gather dreams and tuck the meadow in for sleep,
where giants drop their memories in gold about their feet,
where streams decline to whisper words of songs they can’t repeat,
where raining ochre golden reds dry the azure barren blue,
where every breath is held in hush pulling near each moment true.

I stand in quiet submission,
drawn in part by passing time,
coerced to close this phase of life
and calmly lay it down in rhyme.
This present held in honor,
my nod, respect, from one who knows
that spring will once more hold them
beyond the coming winter snows.

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Filed under Nature, Perspective, Photography, Poetry

Send Me Back

Send me back in time to be the one you wanted there.
Bend my longing eyes to find your loving heart, standing bare.
Find the pulse, quickened beat, break reluctance then repeat till what is left of us is true, no doubt of fate, just me and you.

Rip the questioned fabric down revealing only youth.
Burn the closets, melt the crowns, sell the spoils for truth.
Reach to me, smile your eyes, hold me fixed in lullabies that dream the dream of what we know, held there in such afterglow.

Grant the sleep that lovers know when all the world has vanished.
Heap our hearts in pyre’s show denying fate by futures banished.
Hold in wisps my silhouette as leaving earth our lives forget the years apart transfixed by life, knowing that you were my wife, and eternally my lover.

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Filed under Dreams, Perspective, Poetry, True Love, Universal Soul

Southbound

“Southbound!” calls my rolling heart as sunlight stretches shadows long to fall across this country road, strobing rhythmic beats in song.

Mountains silhouetted west, stack in charcoal violet hues, march through heaven’s open gate, wave on wave, ascending blues.

Late September’s fragile warmth will hold till dusk then grant no more of season’s captured clarity, where all rejoice to fly and soar.

The wind caresses gently, each greying strand upon my head as subtle farms just slip by leaving dells of green instead.

The V-Twin roar seduced to purr and smile in golden sunlit chrome grants me peace in witness of this autumn’s eve returning home.

“Southbound!” calls the road in rhythm cross the tracks and through the turns where twin pipes echo thunder through each memory herein earned.

Singing lanes where time abstains from senseless aging stalls, releases such a symphony of sound and light and highway calls…. “Southbound!”

This thread runs on forever, eternal in this timeless play where sun and road and peace of mind ride immortal roads that stay “Southbound!”

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Shadowed Grey and Cornice Stone

In shadowed grey a glimmer runs along the wall and cornice stone
which heralds softly to the night that mist and black remain alone.

Heavy on the cobbled path where ne’er a soul would dare retreat,
the telling steps of sadness peel, in timid echo’s soft defeat.

Burdened by the overcoat, a hat and head in slung denial
meld between the evening’s black and silver ghosts of light’s revival,
spun along the changing lines, bound to stones’ square corners,
captured in the aftermath of day’s regress through night’s reformers.

Postured slow and longing, whispers caught beneath the hush
that dream to hope beyond the pain suspended in slow motion’s rush,
as if the bleak and shadowed form could catch one simple stroke of light
to steal the blackness from the grey and dare to face the night.

Untold to all in absence there,
unsung, the cry of what despair
must so be bound upon each step imposed within the absent glare
that surely pulls this figure forward, that mends the fabric sorely torn,
that as the gentle echoes fade a hushing peace for hope is born.

In shadowed grey a glimmer runs along the wall and cornice stone
where night and mist unite in truce for those who need to walk alone.

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Filed under Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

Where Nothing Has Gone Wrong!

As blood of soul there spilt upon the page where nothing has gone wrong but to absorb the fits of scribe that flies a pestilent horse that tried to capture all the woes of life, leech the pain from blood and bone, storm the memories castle wall to leave a wake of dead unknown… it is the ink that screams its thoughts when freed from nib where once was caught, yet ‘neath the guide of trembling hand is whipped to what is right or damned!

Its purpose rent for petty cash to columns bound to rags of trash, its heart of blackened knightly steel denied the point to fight and feel, to wake the living thoughts of men, to dare the sword to come again!

Alas, it is this ink’s last wish that if it has to live like this, can’t an innuendo gleam between the printed column’s seam? Can’t it bring some special prose that burns the rag in eyes deposed to only study long enough to only see vanilla thought, that through a few swift strokes of pen will render what is greatest wrought of poet’s pen and lash of ink, by eyes that see and minds that think, by what imagined, real or dead comes forth through pen and ink that bled its soul upon the page where nothing has gone wrong, and nothing ever pays the bills but hearts of men, real men, who long… who long to feel and pray and fight, to stand in purpose, stand with right and herald truths there brought from them, enflamed in passion by the pen and by the screaming heart of ink, that brings our souls to write and think!

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Filed under History, Perspective, Poetry