Step and Repeat (Human History)

Cast and forged in nature’s fire,
setting sun, low, reaching long…
across the smithy’s face of soot
the glimmered rays contrast the gold
and hammered sparks of iron,
bent to will,
graced to twist,
blends in halo delicate,
beneath the hammer and the fist.

By might of nature, by strength of man,
these countries forged to bend the will,
die hard in heated steeps of anguish,
dig deep within, stand now to fill
a history’s tale of heroes gone,
epic lives, villain’s greed,
echoed o’er the tongues of young
standing in the shadowed seed
of what will surely rise to fall,
of what will fail in hateful calls,
of what will rise to mend the sum,
when heroes day courageous comes.

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The Physics of Aging

It calls,
I refuse,
but the rest of me follows…
into the grey with pock marked skin,
wrinkles defining a last bastion of defiance.

I win so many,
those little battles…
losing weight,
gaining strength,
outwitting the youngers,

but then it calls me…
pulls me along a path that I can neither define, nor resist…
strange aches at dawn,
gasps of pain that I’ve never felt there before…
sits my healthy ass down with a plop,
gives me a cane to rise again,
jeers at me…

knowledge overcomes the fear;
studious adaptations,
modified living,
physical therapy…
I win again.

It’s waiting for my confidence to build,
for my testosterone driven libido to stand just a bit too proudly…
then it will call me.

I know this game,
now.

Newton had it right…
“a body in motion remains in motion
until it is acted upon by an external force”.

Aging…

the physics of it entertain,
yet annoy,
try my patience and courage,
shake my confidence
yet stir iron will from my soul.

I heard someone say once,
“aging isn’t for the faint of heart”,
or maybe it was something like,
“only the courageous grow old”…
either way, they’re both right.

It calls,
I‘m forced to listen,
forced to learn…

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The Arch

mesa arch david richter

Between the gilded scents of morn, standing open, beckoning,
an archway calling heaven’s song, reaching for my soul.
Spun in precious mountain light, thinnest air in reckoning,
stretching white the shadows long, waiting for my toll.

I know no sparkled band of path that led me to this place and time,
I know the keeper, owner, not, yet dare, I seek to meld sublime
into the space held just beyond, heart and soul in conflict,
upon the points of life and death, one free, one earthly convict.

Above the azure honey drips, wet and washed, brush marks lain,
a hint of flame arising slow, rushing through this quiet song.
Flaxen hints in burlap’s hatch, flagging dawning, midnight’s stain,
burgeoned lust in afterglow, blushing in sweet sunbeams, long.

It calls to me, I know, yet know not where I wander,
free to pull, above, below, tear my present self asunder,
break this living’s hesitation, rend a soul from deeper hues…
It calls me, beckons, pleads me home, ‘til quietly, I float right through.

Image by David Richter – Mesa Arch – http://www.davidrichterphotography.com

Posted for dVerse ~ Poets Pub 10-May
Lillian prompted us to consider doors; the suspense of what lies on the other side; the transition of passage; the simplicity and beauty of the doorways of our world.
You can find many great poets at dVerse.  I wholeheartedly recommend you take a look.
https://dversepoets.com/

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The Rhyme

Bend the will of rhyme to time, define one single speck of peace, grant a solace ‘twixt the words upon the ink’s sweet black release. Drift my mind to never worlds, where cursive loops in scrawling bleed, that there I find a fascination in all these crazy scenes of greed. Or is it need, that drives it there, takes control, extends my hair and boils a madman’s single eye that stares upon the page with fire, in ire burgeoned from a peace where just one moment did release?

But here in diving deep to find the moment’s pause, the sacred rhyme, here in swimming longer through the glancing blows of what is true, finding meter’s just a lie, so left to face what surely dies when now the freedom’s passed! The clock says “go!” and I alas, must follow or be ruined sure, so back to work in fires impure, back to head and shovel down, sweat and blood enough to drown even the best of all our strength…

But now, the language comes to me, the fired rhyme and rhythm be, each word is cast upon my mind, I stand among the dregs to find that they are listening quite content, their shovels gone, their hurry spent. They listen to each lengthened phrase, their gasps crescendo in honest praise, they feel the power granted here and when I’m through, they stand and cheer!

In audience of the pen and ink, ‘tis that which grows within, I think, that matters most, yet spoken hence without the written plan’s suspense, that every word to them beholding is carried true throughout the folding hands of space and time, the shovel, sweat, the pain and rhyme… all ‘tis mine!

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March

March wind stalls,
too bold,
within a broken azure sky,
bends beneath the will of spring,
grey and white,
scents bluster by.
Crisply,
winter’s air regained,
season’s linens hanging fresh,
warming flesh in hopeful mirth,
chilled cheek and nose and breath.
Subtle hints in whispers low,
stir the thrushes,
simple song,
stretching daylight’s feathered wings,
moments gained,
hopes grown long.
Winter’s echoed calling,
softly coaxing soil to spring,
stretches length across the day,
life in suit,
draws taut the string.
Granted love within the soil,
life and death,
reform in birth,
burgeoned blessings build again,
the core of life,
this earth.

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Ocean Mists

beaches-apostles-cliffs-clouds-surf-mist-beach-wallpaper-hd

Mists evade the rolling surf, yet cling to every molecule,
here beneath blue spattered grey, before the cliffs, in ridicule.
Spring the forecast, fall, the truth,
winter’s dungeon through reproof
harbors only summer’s hope when we decide to claim this beach,
gain some sense of proof,
our dreams deny our reach.

Cold the morning air derides all sense of what we hope, to sea,
born on purposed waves of foam through which our selfish lovers flee.
Loath the moment, long for more,
beg a knock upon each door
that keeps a lover’s blush alive within the gently whispered sum,
upon this witless moor,
wonders why we’ve come.

In silent step, pressed in sand,
hushed beneath the cliff’s swift stand,
echoed dreams drift near as ghosts beneath a spattered sky,
walking sweetly hand in hand,
as mists upon tide.

photo courtesy of Public Domain
12 Apostles – Victoria Australia

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The Waiting Room and the Aftermath

Time compressed a lifetime to a single moment, drawn slender, nearly warping the second hand, yet each escaping stroke pounded heavy, a muted hammer against the polished anvil of time’s progression.

The waiting was over. Wringing hands and silent prayers were done.

You entered, unwelcomely wanted, through an angel’s open door. It was June. Iowa June.

The air clung thick. Soundless single syllables just heard beyond the pounding blood of my ears, beneath my mother’s panicked hopeful breathing, against the ironic tapping of your white Florsheim shoes, covered in blood.

Our suspended sanctuary broken with your nod, and respectful question. Yet our vigil held a moment longer, well over the precipice. “I’m sorry,” you said, “he didn’t survive.” All point of reference, gone. Asking, “What!?” You repeated yourself scratching at an explanation. My mother’s orchestral voice raised in tension, sweet timbre of violin strings, disbelieving, could only sing, “Oh no! Oh no! I will never hold his hand again! Oh my God! Oh no!”

To a pinhole view the world resolved. In haunting hush my brother’s sweet tears were all I heard to comfort a life’s long loss. The room devoured, swallowing breath in its labored breathing, Jonah in the whale. Details smeared in fresco, glossy, distorted. Every step, every word relaxed along the corridor, penetrating, piercing my battled grasp to cling on. You there, browning blood rooted in the piped white stitching. Your words, soundless.

Disdain revolved my iron neck, begging to turn away, only to see her there, slanting through hell’s door; a pig in squalor, a nurse in white, makeup of a whore. Piercing the fleeting glimpse of any dream with, “You need to gather the belongings. Come with me.”

Fleeing you, this trap, I followed her. Fat, short, squat legs pounding busy hallway tiles; purpose of a jack hammer. Spinning, burning in overload through hospital denizens, features stretched, some kind, some lost, some loud… An eon’s flooded blur slammed prostrate to clinical white doors. Another trap to open.

“It’s all in here”, she said, thrusting upon me the brown frayed grocery bag, clasped in sparkles of Swingline precision, his name in black, still wafting a Sharpied rush to the end. Would it ever end?

Heavy armed, I slowly turned to face an eternity lulled to desperate lows, stretching it’s Einstein’d moments illusively, forever before me, pressing mass upon mass, gravity surreally bending the tears to flood.
In memory of the waiting room and the aftermath, the day my father died in surgery, June 17, 1985.
Written for d’Verse Poets Pub – http://dversepoets.com/

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