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.

March…

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.

The perfect place

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.

Nothing to be seen here

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.

As one shall come to reap

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.”