The Cobblestone Path

Along this cobbled path I find a peace of mind beneath an arc of wooded shade that calms the day, grants a cool and welcomed dark.
The city, all but gone here, echoes histories’ whispered tones of carriages culled in laughter midst heavy hooves upon the stones.
No rush of time betrays this scene, as slowly drifts this path, eternal.
Horizon calls a timeless point where all resolves, green and vernal.
Memories sung herein, seduce, threaded through each moment’s play, entreating peace and longing ‘tween every step along the way.
Just few I find, my passersby, acknowledge silent solace too, with gentle nods and hidden smiles upon the cobblestone and view.
I pray my heart be caught within as whispered soul enrapt in peace.
I pray this wooded shade of summer holds me fast in sweet release.

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Eternal Rider

Towards setting sun I strike a pose
in chase of dusk’s last errant kiss,
clinging tight to hope, disposed,
dreaming in the sweetest bliss
of light remembered,
touch recalled,
duty bound while love enthralled
across an ochre meadow, this.

Barley wisps ignite the lea
crowned in long ray’s amber fire,
blinding what I strive to see,
as stirrups stretch in raising higher
to glimpse the spark,
lift the veil,
find my love across this dell,
there chance to win her arms, retire.

Eternity my shortest day
hath called me from the tomb and grave
to burden deep my soul to stay,
to ride upon eternal wave
of amber field,
of setting sun,
to nearly see the face, the one
who’s love I couldn’t save.

Toward dusk I strike a hopeful pose,
dreaming of her one last kiss,
belay a sudden scent of rose
to carry home my heart, remiss
of pain endured,
beyond the tide,
at dream within this errant ride,
across this golden meadow’s bliss…

Eternally I ride…

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Abandoned House, Abandoned Clock

Silence in the broken night
withdraws its guarded head within
the fallen shadows black and white,
praying to give in.

Give in again to seconds passed
that carried subtle ochre schemes
of dusk upon suspended dust
in ebbing’s sweetened dreams.

Sweetened dreams of days once held
upon a rich and tempest life,
so bound indulgence beckoning
to claim their fleeting moments, wife.

Fleeting fast in merriment,
echoes through the oaken halls,
centuries claim to ignorance,
desolation within the fall.

Within the fall such silence broken,
sweetened dreams remain as token
seconds in the tempest, scorned
in dusk’s reflection, time is slowly torn.

There the clockworks stop…

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Winter’s Last Night

Here I sit detached, adrift,
through dying embers seek and sift,
in hoping for a welling flame
to heat the hearth and so in claim
a victory toward the spring.

The cords of fuel have spent their best
to heat this home, to garner rest
through lengthened nights of bitter cold,
through winter’s best and deepest hold,
through crackling fires, sing.

The wood pile is depleted now,
the fourteen cords I stacked somehow
have been reduced to eight sticks here,
piled at hearth in hope and fear
of how this winter ends.

Hopes of spring in March relent
to winter’s snow and frozen scent
that whirls around this alpine cot,
trading warmth and embers hot
for hope this season’s time transcends.

Eight sticks, one night, if not to freeze.
Like bread and fish and wine conceive
a hope for Christ to gather here
upon this mount with sermon dear
to hold the storm at bay.

But as the embers gently hush
I find the calm, ignore the rush,
sacrifice on piece of eight
pray that winter’s cold will wait
with me until the day,
and morn will bring the sun.

At warming hearth in blankets deep,
tucked into a rocking sleep,
I hear the whisper of the wind
calling me as gentle fiend
as if to say just one’s okay,
and promising the sun.

So into peace I run…

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The Farmer’s Table – March 1st

“Season’s border.”
“Time,” says I, “to sharpen shears and patch the fence.  Time to think of plowing furrows softened past this cold suspense.”
“Aye, but March, she brings no charity mixed in mud and heavy snow.  Best hold your anxious hand, boy.  Calm yourself ‘til spring to sew.”
The old man spoke in truths that tho’ March toward spring was burgeoning, was far too soon to set the plow and ponder on rows’ furrowing.
“I’ll bet she comes like lamb this year,” I mused in counter confidence.  “I’ll bet that Easter soothes the soil in April blossom’s countenance.”
“Could be,” he smiled a sparkled grin, “but here we’ve frost ‘til first of May.  Best hope for planting April rows will grow on how you pray!”
We laughed and settled back to count the coffee cups before us.  “It’s just this winter’s driven deep.”  So sighed we too in chorus.
“Well my friend,” he stood to go, “appreciate the morning break.”
“So to March and knee deep snow,” and with a nod, “I’ll see ya Jake.”

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Back Against This Wall

Back against this wall…

This alley in remission from evening’s shallow light that casts the neon’s echo ‘cross the puddled rain here left in flight. The creeping of the city’s poise, stagnant, yet repelling the every moment stood before, captured melancholy, telling of the brick so stacked behind my back, its story never told, of tears in lonely crying dealt amidst the thieves, amidst the throes of life, of death, of every moment painted black… I lean against this wall succumbed by all the world, by all the lack.

Into my very soul it pours, every bottle, every poor soul that claimed a moment’s home between the puddles, against the loam of what the city so disgusts, but bends to truth and hides in trust that such is never seen. I lean against this wall, now mean. I feel the bullet holes here left, where souls caught glimpses of their death. I smell the acrid bloom of fear and echoed running footsteps hear… to justice? to ends? to whatever’s left of soul’s lost friends…?

Behind the madness of my mind I feel the thrum and so go blind to all the hopes here swimming round, adrift within this dying ground… this dying ground, is it? I write it lest I should forget. My shadow crosses fast before the falling neon lights in roar glanced across the puddles’ rent where only living’s death is spent, and so I to my own.
Back against this wall, alone.

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In Eros’ Service – the mender

Cast betwixt two drifts of wind my sorry soul did drown,
torn between two lover’s tides, in confluence, pulled me down
beneath these waves of temporal flux, be cast to love’s deep purpose,
where only I can pay the debt, one hundred years be tied to service.

In penance to all breaking hearts that I may mend their shattered hopes,
forever ‘neath the northern star, forever pulling frozen ropes.

No reference to horizon made that I my debt delay,
held beyond sweet morning’s dawn, denied each glimpse of day.

Cast I wreck from havoc to belay a pardon’s sweet remorse
that these poor souls adrift here, by me, return their course.

So to love or death they go with fractured hearts amend,
yet of the shards here left behind unto my selfish purpose lend
a hope that love may still await when placed within my own,
that penanced years of servitude may build a heart, so grown.

Yet still the seas of love do crash, deliver me their broken hopes,
as time stands still beneath this pole, these frozen hands on frozen ropes.

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