The Old Road

Ragged edge of road, framed in fray and grasses gold. Held in drunken course by bits of broken stays from fences split. Gathered there, around each post, lays lagging wind and moonlight’s ghost.

She wanders o’er the silent lea disturbed to find her way, where once she knew an arrowed path between the barn and forest’s lath, now stumbles towards the wood, in sway.

A silvered grey and fallen barn counts her steps in jest, laughs in hollow whispered grins then slowly slips back off to rest. Ravens perch upon a plow whose earth has frozen still its lust, captured in an eon’s tuft of grasses tall and tawny rust. They bob in exultation, guffaw in crow-ish song, as crossing o’er the rock filled stream she lifts her skirts and tip-toes on. She stumbles through the slope of hill where years before she scarred her spine, exposing what was laid beneath, now blushing from another time.

Before her stands the vacant wood where once she loved to play, wherein she loved the lack of sound, echoed in old memory found, and subtle longing just to stay.

She trips across the ashen timber, fallen fast asleep, brushes back her silver hair and enters to the cold wood’s keep. She scarcely knows her destination among the ruins thick and grey, but being more than child here, starts and stops and weaves her way toward what she knows is waiting, toward where the day so calmly ends, yet caught in hesitation, denies her fear and wanders thin. Upon the wooded knoll she finds the memory of much kinder times, where snow once graced her lengthened dress and teased her with its hushing rhymes.

Pausing there in sad recall, she hears the river’s gentle hush, dreams an ancient dream of youth when eagerly she gladly rush toward the gallant sparkles cast upon the water’s play, come to meet the boats there, and wade in just a way.

She staggers o’er the broken stones, between reposing trees, lifts her skirts at water’s edge and steps in to her knees. All the diamonds in the world are cast upon the aged stream, conjured by the sun and wind, lay sparkling in a dream. She calmly lets her aging go, reaching toward the distant shore, wanders in, gently laughing, until she is no more.

Upon the ragged edge of road, kept to course by ancient posts, a gently whispered dirge is sung by lagging winds and moonlight’s ghosts.

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Filed under Dreams, History, Memory, Nature, Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

For Paris, For Us

Bend the moment upon me.
Steer my heart to mend my soul.
Force the truth to boldly stand that I may feel its hold.

What of this hate enflamed in cause that steals the youth from ancient lives?
What merciless torture waits beyond the face of hatred’s eyes?

I stand in solidarity, but frozen to this day remain.
Can I not move to change the fabric of what this hatred’s lain?
Are words in rage and anger torn upon this page enough?
Is something deep within this well rising ‘gainst the rough
and calloused turn of man that through his selfish rage is born?
Is there nothing here to stem this growth of ancient hatred sworn?

My God! My God! What is this hell that from this heaven’s shore is breached?
Can love return upon the soil where blood was spilled, by God beseeched?

No faith I’ve lost, believe me, but how I can stand still
when through the acts of cowardice we’re forced another bitter pill?

Love, I cry, it’s love say I, that stems the hatred left in wake,
but seems to drift to hollow halls that such these shadows make.

So I pray… for peace,
for some greater understanding,
for hope of resurrection born from all our souls, demanding.

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Filed under History, Perspective, Poetry, Uncategorized, Universal Soul

It Calls Me

It calls me…
Finely focused mid-day autumn sonnet pulling deep from in my stuttered silence. Haunting me in summer’s wake, diffused, yet burnished real, to form the present in the musk of its decay.
It calls me…

The road beckons, “Follow”. Weary bones seduced, surrender to the calling of horizon’s haze. I feel Georgia. Georgia in June! A far cry from the wintered edge of this Rocky Mountain aspen glen.

What purpose does this longing hold? What ravels ‘tween the whispers sold? That from this alpine meadow’s gape I press the long thin lines, escape?

It calls me…
Leaves me sore in wanton’s trust, leaves me drunk in wanderlust but aye, alas have neither means nor hope. November holds me now, above the nearly frozen rill that spills my dreams across this day, this anxious blue of day.
It calls me…


Filed under Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

The Poet Lost to Time

In slowing hands I raise surrender unto the rush of changing time, where every moment’s broken half defies me what is left of mine. I struggle twixt the foreign marks where chance to write seems barely there, for as they pass me by in space, accelerate with little care till suddenly months have passed…

The ink has dried the nib to stone, the well seems cold and deathly deep, no sudden burst of energy stems from any thought I grant or keep. The echoes haunt my stifled breath with whispers of my own design. The reaping of the torn page left to rot in dreams enflamed, benign.

Familiarly unfamiliar, the chill of distance culls my bone, to chance, to once remember the promise that is mine alone. My knuckles strain in horror through the pain that bends the pen to might, dowses deep the nib to blood of depths through fleeting wells of night. The page relents unwarily of the tragedy arcs of ink inscribe until the exclamation point drags fabric’s last resistant cry to rend the mad derision whole, flood the ebbing’s wild tide, release these pent up anxious lines through coursers dream and fleshy pride!

Yet so the distance broken, the stuttered thoughts unfold to gain a simple course, a token of the moments lost and dreams once slain, that now the pen in fervor may break its arc in strengthened tone, now the ink regained in trust will follow what’s inscribed in stone, and here my muse ignites its lust, here my dreams breathe new, here I stand one fleeting spot of time in portrait new.

As I stand above the mess of ink, above the fragile thought, I turn to hope tomorrow’s break, will land me in this moment caught, and not deny to fleeting time, not relent to days succumbed, but find the gentle prose of spirit and with it bring my dreams in sum.

There is a gap between the hours where precious hopes drift off to die. There is a moment’s silenced breath that stands to guard each question why that utters from the lips of time, when stalled its children slip there, so stays the pennant shield to chance and beckons home each thought in care.


Filed under Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

This Pen

This pen, condemned to write long hand
twixt static lines immutable.
I dream in screams, enslaved demand,
until no whim’s refutable.

I drift between the penny thoughts that eons’ scars have tarnished green.
I search for lasting reverence to bath the mind in dreams unseen.

Then one, by one, the pen strokes lay
their theoried marks across the page.
Yet I, denied the truth they play
o’er temporal poles of peace and rage.

I watch the sloppy arcs of ink strive to drive a purposed thought.
I hear the rhythmed scratching nib stroke the paper’s lust here sought.

My hand, demands some false control
that I may feel these arcs are mine.
Yet so, I know it guides my soul,
entreating purpose form this blind.

That I behind this pen in shadow steal a glimpse of ink and prose,
conjured form this poet’s ether, released afield by arcs it throws.


Filed under Perspective, Poetry

Of What Men Know

What stands before the path of man that to his conscious calls?
What errant spun devices cast a doubt where shadows fall?
What is the fleeting last regret that spins a temporal web of lies?
What casts a haunting second breath before the mournful cries?

Tis locked in deep regression, where only courage can transcend.
Tis in the danced illusion that wraps his mortal soul in sin.
Tis nothing less than innocence engaged in dreams beyond.
Tis only shied experience ‘till age can take it on.

For here upon the precipice of aging mortal waves,
is seen a lifetime’s counter call in triumphed moments saved.
Here recall the history that to these feet has blessed,
that what’s before in mystery has once or twice been second guessed.

To grey and tattered countenance upon the head and cheeks.
To moment’s hope impaled in hate forever left beneath white peaks.
To kindest wrinkles manifest by laughter stolen in a sleep.
To every living texture’s thread so stitched within the soul so deep.

Raise a glass to history! Call a toast to life!
Sing a song of mystery that courage grows from human strife!
Bless the living innocents that by their lacking wisdom go,
to fall and muster strength to rise and come to this of what men know.


Filed under Growth, Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

Amber Dawn

Amber dawn, ‘neath blushing skies,
quells the azure’s limpid eyes
from dewy tears of morn
that cling in hush and silenced breath
beyond the long cold arm of death
that’s stilled in stone when days are born.

Here upon this Scottish hill
o’er grassy lea and whispered rill
the sea in silence kisses
rocky shores where lovers leapt,
shipwrecked crews whose secrets’ kept
within their love, their misses.

I in humble witness here
mend in hope the simple fears
that balance dawn and death,
by simply casting prayers out
in hopes such dreams may come about
to grant sweet love its breath.

That crescent moons in morning skies
wipe clear the tears from lovers’ eyes,
stay the blush to truth,
that closely held to beating breast
will grant eternal peace and rest
with memories’ lain in threads of youth.

This amber dawn, these blushing skies,
draw a tear unto my eyes
and prayer from my lips,
that as I rise to find my day,
blessed in love I’ll sweetly stay,
leave just my dreams with sunken ships,
for here the day is born.


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