Blues in ‘D’

There was a cross in the meadows

to where my eyes can see

there was a cross in the meadows

to where he stood and breath,

Blews across the wheat fields

O’ commin to carry me –

 

Gold rings on every finger

where nails used to be

Golden rings and broken nails

there his eyes on me,

Blews across the wheat fields

winds of change for me –

 

Strung up like the scarecrow

singing like the breeze

Strung up like a scarecrow

pleading wont you pleaze,

blews across the wheat fields

O’ commin; O’ commin to carry me –

 

(Chorus)

Carry me too far away

too far away to be seen

carry me so far away

away from here and then –

One door, one way, your choice

And so another grazing day

has left me at the wayside

within relevance of crashing waves,

my feet they stammer in reluctance

and the sands are deep at the knee;

where once I used to forage

my heart is now blind to see.

 

The ache is deeper than all can be

and the splashing of arms not calm

the breath is at its all time low

and the mind is all but gone,

broken ribs from sobbing

and laughter to the hilt

were all together in madness

loving every precious guilt,

to stop and look within ourselves

would surely mean to kill

the lies we have earned so willingly

its there that skin like chill,

so sleep each night among the scars

that litter across the floor

bodies gasping to and fro

bloody fingers seeking the door.

A strand of days

Its today and soon tomorrow

relics of what was yesterday

weeks adorned with sweetness

and footing at no expense,

is it here now that the moments lost

where I sat in languished solitude

cracks along the border fray

and eyes a gesture of too afraid,

things go on in and, and and

reaching for the punch

but little to no one can be done

for generations are out to lunch,

I stir the food for better taste

but the palette is far from clean

the day to day of impiety

my mind a threaded stream,

so surf along my salty dog

along the shredded ways

where dope means all is good

and life is just another day.

The delicate taste of harrow

There is a tick at the back of my mind

the canny unruly and ahead un-behind

and the frost among the lilies lie

with ashes and spit among the blind,

to what may ask becomes of them

when the haunting and furrows have been fed

the skin a crawl over depths and halls

crying souls ease from out their bed,

its the waking of these that are so blind

too late to hear among their calling

when the depth of tears are fluttering

and the words as embers adrift in falling,

standing hear I remember the well

where we sat at the eve on the morrow

hands entwined as vines upon lattice

filling grapes by the glass with sorrow.

The minds hallway

Not every light is illumination

For some its a darker deep

where things are lurking on every whim

and the quill records every creep,

a mind full of static resonation

always swimming in shadowed air

sights and sounds of unseemly

here the author partakes of the rare,

but nothing is free that is gleamed

and the price too is quite steep

for every word that is written

the shadows in return get their reap.

Choose wisely

And why, the little beetle asked

does all the sea life whale

where do all the birds go

and why do humans sail?

The goose looked down to him

and shook her head in thought

its always the same my little one

everything is for naught.

See all the things you question

fill your mind with wrinkled webs

encouraging you and losing time

till all the flow is dead;

so hear me when I say to you

you’ll have nothing left to worry

because I’ll make it all just go away

and eat you in a hurry.

The color of Rose

The flowers seemed to brighten up and sing

Doo do-do, doo do-do, be bauda-bee

I could feel the lightness in my stride

as I moved along the flora path

trees were snapping to a cool breeze

and the clouds were all a bobbing

my skip moved on as I smiled along

children were shining in rich color

with monkey bars where they fell

and passerby’s looking with corner eyes

to see who can this be, doo ba-dee

marching

to the rhythm

of the Jazz.