The Poet’s Eternal Blood

When ink no longer flows from wells
through pens that bring the poet’s tale –
When stars decline to shine through nights
of bible black and moonless heights –
When breezes fail to stir the musk
of woodland’s stagnant summer husk –

Tis then my heart will write in blood
by candle flame of passion’s flood
drawn sweet across my sweating skin
to bring it all to life again!

When fate denies the hands of time,
freezing metronomes in rhyme –
When strings and bow default to mute,
failing note’s enamored suit –
When carol and the chorus gone
from symphonies’ now retched song –

Tis then that I by stomping foot
will raise the rhythm from the soot,
howling loud with dog and cat
to mount this music strong and fat!

When life blood dries and I have gone
to brighter pastures, green and long –
When heart beat thrums have left my chest
and drift in ashes final rest –
When hands are cold and voices dry,
when worldly sparks deny my eye –

Tis then that I will rise again
through souls of ink and nibs of pen!
Tis then this poet’s art will thrive
and through the ages come alive!

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The Reed’s Lament

Bow to time in passing tide,
as reed beneath the strong spring’s flow,
in desperate stance against the current,
fingers white not letting go.

Last summer’s ancient memory calls
of standing tall midst songs of thrush,
whistling in the breezes there
that call their tunes in quiet rush.

Autumn faded fast to winter’s
standing cold near bank and glade,
christened stiff in season’s charge,
a soldier of the browning blade.

Yet hope held fast for fervent spring
when last all dues were done,
that here amidst the daffodils
would sweetly hear the spring creek run,
that here the hard earned penance paid
would grant reward near burgeoned spring,
to rejoice “at last I’ve made it!”
while chickadees and warblers sing.

How cruel this unexpected life
that drowns him in the current now,
bound by winter’s run-off,
must to its raging currents bow.

Spring will let to mending roots
of hope now torn from place,
drawn from sun’s sweet giving life
to patch the straining tears that face
the distant threat of winter
while standing midst a summer’s seam
with only hope to focus toward
the healing of his hopes and dream.

Cruel the tide of season’s mix
upon this changing earth,
granting life and death through chance
twixt distant temporal poles of birth.

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Where Once I Died

Thereupon the bridge stood I,
above the crowd’s tumultuous storm,
in offering, what hope had I
against their hapless raging form
that crashed in waves upon the piers
once placed by honest men,
now torn from ragged indolence
of hatred’s depth again.
In lacking faith and understanding,
lost from knowledge kept,
they clamored high in selfishness
not owning all the tears we wept.

So to hope and value pressed,
my hands across their sky,
I tried imparting all my strength
in knowledge, that they too might try
to come to understand the pain
and sacrifice of the few
that stacked, for them, their soapbox pulpits
high to get a better view,
born on shoulders of the past
and those who gave it all
in hope to birth this great tomorrow,
where none would here the tyrant’s call.

But hope misplaced to ignorance
distorts across the sands of time,
degrades to soulless decadence
when all they know is “mine”.

Standing high above the mass,
arms spread wide with calming tone,
plead did I of petulance
to find compassion, here alone.
As the roaring din grew faint
to hear my crying plead,
I saw the flash, heard the crack
from which all hope did fast recede.
Mid-breath in phrase “this hope is mine”,
the thud collapsed my chest,
exploding truth without a breath,
the bullet never came to rest
but caught my soul, eternal,
and cast me heaven-high,
as upon my fallen body gazed,
I watched my mortal image die.

I stood upon that bridge in hope.
I laid my soul to bear.
I gave my heart to save them,
receiving just their leaden stare.
No matter recollection,
their numbers grow the great divide
that separates few honest men
upon the bridge where once I died.

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Blushing Dawn

In gentle rose of dawning light
this alpine meadow sings,
beckoned from her blushing right
to call to day, all things.

From quiet start to fluttered hurry,
all call from one to one to one,
till caught in flustered din and flurry
break the dawning peace in sum.

The forest floor reborn a-wild,
with subtle hints to work yet done,
casts the sun a dimpled smile
and to her burgeoned beauty come.

‘Tis simple best
this sweetly dressed
expression herein lain,
that she embrace
each living face
and with their souls remain.

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

One Note

Stretched along horizon’s view
resounds the hint of love’s sweet song
that sings the very truth of you,
that holds your note, vibrating long.

In resonance, only purity,
no dissonant echoed tone,
but by your heart’s sweet surety
does hold my heart’s vibration ‘lone.

Beit fate or time surpassed
that keeps this vision clear,
‘tis from this distance you, my lass,
hold me in your one note, clear.

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Summer’s Road

Summer’s whisper beckons me
within this blushing vernal spring.
It calls from asphalt’s ribbon twist,
pleads two wheels to roll and sing.

It draws my dreaming vision
through the hills and vales where few now go.
It steams the white line’s passion
to pull me through those turns I know.

It paints me slow in two lane strokes
that vanish through the countryside.
It marks the bygone highway routes
with simple arrow’s pointing tide.

It plies my heart with promises
of love left on the road.
It bathes my conscious glorious,
paying living debts I’ve owed.

It steeps elixir’s fragrant musk
in greenwood’s summer scent.
It kisses oh so sensuous
on roiling wind, on all that’s lent
to free this rider’s passion,
to set the world to peace,
to grant the road’s compassion,
to bathe in sweet release.

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Unholy Gale

In this room where books spill forth
from every shelf set head to toe,
inchambered by the oaken casks
of bookcase tales I’ve come to know,
I sit reposed in couraged fear,
content with snifter wafting near,
loath to let my cold dread show.

In torrent’s thunder, what can’t be seen
haunts in rushing ghastly breath,
thrums the shuttered windows ‘round,
whips the willow’s dance like death!
I shudder with this creaking room,
lost to malcontented gloom,
my courage thus my shibboleth.

Embers of the dying night
cling to evening’s fire in wane,
held by chimney’s banshee howls
that raise the dead to dance insane!
I, content to hold my nose
above the brandy’s sweet repose,
my thoughts disturbed to pain…

That conjure, in the wicked howls,
one million devils streaming ‘bout
my secret lair and sacred peace
in moaning, screaming, crying shout!
So sip the brandy slowly,
pray this devil’s gale, unholy,
retreats before the glass runs out.

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