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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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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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

Ageless Gardener

Between the rows of simple life where grows the finest harvest known
are hands of soil and aging skin that tender what in spring was sewn.

A dew drop heralds morning light enraptured in suspended grace,
whose world reflects the azure blue with love of smiling eyes and face.

Each pepper kindly tendered,
each pod and bean so lightly held,
each ripened red tomato vine caressed and in the moment meld.

Her hands of soil, on knees of clay,
beckon to this garden’s lay
to hush those thoughts of early frost
and bow in love where seeds were tossed.

Her whitened hair and wrinkled eyes
define an age her heart denies,
yet from this soil and giving ground
her ageless spirit picks what’s found
between the rows of garden there,
as angel bowed on knee, in care.

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For Those I’ve Lost

This time in life is granted only excerpts from the greater toll
that beckons in its rhythm, moments for a wanting soul,
to live, to gain, to give through pain,
to know the love of those who love and in it never feel the drain
of moments bound to dust.

For time is short in living, our pleasures mount our memory,
that in the end at final breath we count them all in reverie.

The souls we touch are here for us, each blessing granted in return,
that when we give of what we know we share the things we most must learn.

Some I’ve known have slipped beyond the current’s blood of beating heart,
yet each in turn gave gracefully a blessing sweet, instilled as art
in loving what their time did grant, in knowing kindness true,
in setting place for time again to sit and talk a few.

I know in true reflection that my silence seems quite empty now,
but grief is for the living, yet through it, all I see is how
they touched me with their gentle hands, and smiled form their truest source,
so granted me a piece of God in whispers held along my course.

Yet still the echoes’ silence rings when by their empty home I pass,
and sadness fills the emptiness that I must hold for them, alas…
it is my purpose rent for them, recalling all the times we knew,
recalling conversations long, now seeming much too few.

God grant them peace and blessings, grant the love for them I show,
hold them close in comfort knowing that the best in them is what I know.

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Filed under Memory, Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul