The Dreamland Shoppe

Jack Roamer, the owner of the Dreamland Shoppe smiles to the lass as she watches him lay some of the gems out onto the counter before her. They gleam and shimmer under the candle light, then he starts to sing a song of their tales; hoping to entice a sale…

 

“Gems they come in many colors, as blue as the sky or sea

many rage with fire, like the Carnelian, as you can see,

although some are cold as ice, they have a power too

like Lapus with its cloudy sky and gold with which to imbue.

 

Sapphire, Ruby, Opal; Azurite, Tektite, and more

Stones of secret places, filled with the powers of lore,

but the one you seek will speak out loud by color and or size

maybe radiate or hum its tune or float, and maybe rise,

you’ll know it when you see it, maybe, maybe not

but you’ll always find the best with us,

here, at the Dreamland Shoppe.”

Rainy convolutions

Little patter I hear you sew
knee deep within the sounds
of running refrains along the storm
where the howls meet in prowl,
and the strains there of are crying.

Spitter spatter I hear your weave
descending over wind and flame
coursing through the waning stone
your crimson notes a painted stain,
to where the sands are meet.

And here I sit in brooding tones
all colors, shades, and sizes
in search again of nothing more
my treasure box of empty prizes,
where a dime is worth a dozen.

Reluctance to cohere

There’s a creaking chair outside

my window on the pane,

where moods are flowing over side

and out along the trailed,

somewhere beneath the floorboards

between the sleep and waking.

 

Where a tree just wandered off

to sea the rivers angle,

effortless without the breeze

standing empty shores,

where clouds all baffle together

and quiet is a far off scream.

 

Its hear that I can understand

why the color is hue,

and where the stars all lead

when they fall out of love,

alone among the fullness

of a world seeking…

Copious masquerade

Can I cry now

my hands in despair

a heart full of seeds

that flow without care,

my eyes all disjointed

the soul is a knot

seeping every pool

at the songs from the rot,

and here at my turning

are the sounds that are creeping

along broken feet

with my face bent in weeping.

The cost of frontiers

Sorrow, my bitter friend

you crease my bent and broken brow

make my heart a waiting pool,

to songs of nowhere longing

each cry, this beckoning fool.

 

Everyday a single path

down the loss and ever growing

a reach just from my grasp

no path beyond the woods.

Perhaps to sway the oceans

of a never ending wade,

where the depths are nowhere deep

and the stars forever weep;

along riddles of sky

over ridges and mounts

under valleys on high.

A window of pools

Its not the tears that make me cry

but the wonder of their springs

that which beats upon their strings

coursing through the mind,

the ever spreading golden rings

that weep within my eyes.

 

This countenance of singing trickles

that ever flows the stream

a consciousness of rutting waves

gently swaying to the dream,

remembrance from a long ago

that cradle along the creek,

making for the running waters

my heart, my soul, too deep.

One mans map, is another mans treasure

Off the coast my captain

and thar she blows

far off as the sea is deep,

towards off shore lands

where the tales have teeth,

and the waves come in drowning heaps.

 

Twas this the lad he pointed afar

to a crumb of land nearby

our map has finally paved its course

as our rum was running dry,

the thrill it waved upon us all

at the thought of treasures found

we stood among the rocking deck

dirty beards and stench by the pound,

that’s when the sound came crashing through

cannons and firearms, knives they flew

everything was lost that fateful day

the map, the treasure, and me crew.