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

Soul Mates

There is a line that stands in time
between two lonely hearts displaced,
there hung by clothespin’s fading care
are hopes on parchment penned by grace
that hold the sweep of hands that keep
the rhythm kind across this space,
pulls the heartstrings bound in pairs
that each will know each other’s face.

When soul on soul is granted
by downbeat of the moving parts,
there comes a living moment’s bliss
between the chords struck for two hearts.

There is a call that beckons all
to seek the gift and soul of one
whose heart in reverberation pulls
the truth of love in anxious sum,
of two that still the simple will
as resonant waves of love undone,
there calms the ether fast and full
that into each sweet life does run.

When soul on soul is lifted
by what our greater spirits know,
then shines the truth of what is meant
by “soul mates” love in what they show.

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The Rose, The Table, The Love, The Time

In ageless hesitation,
the pedals of the rose caress
the lines of time held sweet to rhyme
there poised across the oak’s duress,
that hold this ancient table
as art above its form
and echoes sweet the whispered times
when love engaged it, warm.

Now ‘tween the grains are softened waves
whose crests form black and knurled,
midst stains of life and living spilt
across an age unfurled.

Sweet the musky rose entreats
the golden oak with peace,
dripped from fallen “love me nots”
and broken heart’s release.

Silent stands the aged stem
whose vase has dried and browned
to contrast kind the porcelain
in fissures where life’s time has drowned,
and left the finest web enwrapped
about the fading glaze once white,
now aged and thin as are the hands
that nearby hold one pedal tight.

Held quiet in reflection,
dreams of love entwine her thoughts
as lines of time held sweet to rhyme
drape long across this moment sought,
as oak and rose sustain her
and hold her saddened form,
while echoes sweet in whispered words
enrobe and keep her warm.

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Filed under Perspective, Poetry, True Love