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.
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.
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.
You know what I remember?
I remember a soaked red sky
under moonlit oceans
and the colors of every shred,
the heart songs of children
tucked away in their bed,
singing blue songs for April
through the holes in their head.
This I recall as I sit in my depth
inside my bottle
spilling over with dread,
but change is a clean glass
way high on the shelf
and the sun is a morning away,
where the glorious soul
does its dance for the day,
and the cradle begins
what I hope and I pray.
There’s a heart on the horizon
a large plump beating heart
its filling up the rivers
and flowing through the stars.
Every moment a passing day
every year a reaching rest
and here this heart it hovers high
as the heavens golden crest,
but lo, the land it seeks it not
quite happy to feast its gorge
the bitterness of a gluttony
a writhing fleshy horde,
the end a far off tale
or so we have all been told
to carry on without a thought
settled neatly within the fold.
But that heart it still awaits
pumping with its love
moaning with its compassion
and roaming among the clouds.
Chit chat, does not a poet make
to babble over knee high waves
expression for the masses,
words that rest in shallow graves
cheap wine in dirty glasses.
The footing is always at behest
the grounds a wander and turn
away from the fray at hand
no escape from the minds subtle burn,
over falling fluid dangerous land
drifting lost on courses from there to here
along this wayward winding path
not where or how, not far or near;
but cross along the hairs
fine razors at the footing
each nudge a waver leaning
every word the song of mooting.
There’s an ever easing flow
of the land that’s far to sea
where blossoms are within the tow
and the spring sings out with glee,
birds above a gentle swing
as the trees stand tall in flow
songs of mother across the skies
where the flowers reach and grow,
once there was a bitter cold
from the queen whose heart is ice
but now the sister moves up close
showing glory to the thrice,
“All hail his Immanence
the Father of all we know
for his glory shines in every time
precious life by deed and row.”