as I wrote this piece, I returned to the clean silence of the woods, like nothing else in the world
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Tag Archives: journey
artless words
boiling bedroom thoughts
My body sweats like a cornered animal–
one in full knowledge of its doom.
Are you mocking me from up there?
Maybe you know, I’m not supposed to be here anymore.
There is a need to escape.
Cross the land bridge before it sinks into oblivion–
like the cornered animal with its inedible bones.
Nothing of value produced, save a pair of usable offspring, one must not appear completely heartless.
I do thank you for calming me this evening.
The wine bottle has poured dry and empty.
Closets are bulging at the seams with meaningless feathers.
The single-bulb, reading lamp is casting shadows longer than my pen.
Whatever my scrawl is this time of night, it is difficult to interpret.
And you, up there mocking me–
allowing me to fantasize over hope and comfort and dreams.
In denial you are, the sureness of a life’s work–
round and round and dumbly satisfied.
Well, how does this move you;
Your starburst shadow against the ceiling, long and lean–spinning, always spinning–
begs for mercy and a final escape it will never realize.
baby mask
words are for stories
I am sorry for not following your footprints
you know how we want to blaze our own trails
I’m more like the one who hides in the wild brambles along someone else’s path
stopping to pick the gathering moss from my toes
hoping my feet will stain a lovely shade of flowerless green
so I won’t need to buy socks
(too often my happy spirit falls out my sock holes)
damn, I don’t darn well
I am sorry for not visiting your fine table at tea time
sipping is a lost art and I become dumbstruck at the sight of delicate porcelain tuele
I can cower behind a steaming Starbuck’s Venti
latte, latte, latte
blow the foam
watch me smile all day pretending I’m a writer
enumerating every reason why my work isn’t on one shelf
not one, that’s why I dunk three lattes
and seek out your footprints while no one is watching
still, there is my spirit guide
she drinks naught
eats less than sips
her curved feet are bare and beautiful
her wings are tucked around her disheveled robes
she is proud of her life
passion burns hot in her breast
the embodiment of joy in simple musing
she pulls me away from the wild things that grow on another’s path
she kisses my cheek, returns my black socks patched with green threads
then she tosses me back onto the road where I started out
allowing me no words for excuses
“words,” she whispers in her gorgeous velvet-throwback voice
are for stories
spirit guide sketched this past weekend while at a boisterous high school wrestling tournament
private island
on the small island where you try laying claim
breathing transports the flesh to and from the coast
you journey without compass of starlight
high spirited purpose often billowing canvas
effortlessly forward across wilding seas
spinning as she does
paths disappear in your wake
water eventually erodes the edges
no sanctuary exists for you in these pounding crests
settling upon an abandoned shell
placing it to your wrinkled lobe
you close your eyes, inhaling the ocean
once more seeking out the peace of those crashing island waves
chiseled stallion manes
a grand canyon
opens upon herself
deliberate in need
a succubus of blazing color
lifted from sunken oyster shells
bewitched by desert suns
he, Bryce
wild stallion manes
chiseled of stone
breaking gravity
powdered blue with atmosphere
tawny bleached
breathless creations
we limited to human-ness
can only admire
skeleton stallion
many years ago, I saw the Grand Canyon and believed her lovely, but I was exceptionally amazed at the unusual beauty of Bryce Canyon, Utah
the background in this sketch is an homage to Bryce
sweating glass
it took an old southern rock bar band
a switch from wine to gin and tonic
and the recollection of a childhood memory
to swallow a dream starting to slip slide on thin summer ice
chilled to near perfection once, the dream
the gallant aspirations striking a spark at one’s heels
“why”
love
always there, the love
passion–an over-used word, I call into service here
I want to write about me (without you knowing)
I want to write about you (and think it’s me)
I want to create boulevards and labyrinths,
defeat, victory and the people that fall to both
friends, lovers torn apart, maybe connected in twisting alleys
plain flat features and sculpted bullshit
forbidden denizens
I want to go down the creepy hall and
have my right hand make the left open the door
but the most honest excuse
I’ll place here (bear in mind I got in very late last night)
if I don’t sit beneath the light at 4 am with a pen
I won’t be any good to anyone
so many of us have this story
we happily summon up this creative nightmare
it is not a bad dream but a wickedly feisty journey
across dark boulevards
sipping my midnight refreshing gin and tonic
the sweating glass slipping in my hand a bit
listening and watching the band
they were decent as bar bands go
around people drinking, laughing, texting
four band members
wasn’t a gig worth the pay
wasn’t worth the hot lights, sweat and beer stench
(and there’s that Jackson Brown song)
and the token rude person or two in the crowd
they–the magnificent four, simply loved what they did
not the hot lights, sweating, drunkards, texters, talkers, laughers
and
there was the flash memory of a childhood diary
a little worn book “accidentally” left out for my five sibs
so they might read
my words
the other thing I adore–monsters, this guy drawn last year
happy Sunday:)
southpaw warrior
southpaw warrior
wielding a just sabre
for righteousness
unsheathed in sparking white
gaining action by wind arc
inked blood contract
philosophies demanded
upon lofty principles
enforced with pride
beliefs carved upon singular roads
will not lead
southpaw warrior
to peace
Who
the S word
each one of us
gets stuffed into a human skin
and chucked onto the world map
from there shit happens
we bound around
based on how we’ve defined
the S word
my first recollection of this word,
a football cheer from way back
my high school years
saddle-shoed cheerleaders would sing out
“S-U-C-C-E-S-S
that’s the way you spell success…”
I remember thinking
well, I’m already not a
S-U-C-C-E-S-S
I’m not a cheerleader
for many
Success is easy
it’s simply surviving
to witness another sunrise
for those of us not focused on
food, water, air, health
Success becomes something
entirely different
what is it we want
when we have the “freedom”
to make “choices”
I end here
because it is not for me to say
this is an intimate and personal journey
I leave with just a thought
the S word
S-U-C-C-E-S-S
begins with
SUC
and that’s what it will do
if you let it…
every gorilla species is endangered, today many organizations and individuals are working tirelessly to return these gorgeous animals back to a survival success story
……………………………………………….the tunnel
want it bad?
it’s deep down
you might reach it
crawling on hands and knees
’til they bleed
stumble through the deafening black
clawing and scraping at the tight walls
fingernails ripping off
the tunnel
doesn’t use up life
it just takes time
yours
a beastly eternity
if you make it all the way
shield your eyes
get back on your feet
the light is blinding
but fragrantly warm
now suck in that lucid sky
there’s not much time
the next shadowless passage
is just over
the horizon
quickie sketch, was going to do a whole tunnel concept – truth be told – housecleaning day – damn 😉
