When green leaves turn to brown
And fungus smells all around
There’s going to be a harvest soon
Shovels and two pairs of boots.
When gourds make farmer’s fields
Polka dots and ferris wheels
Big moon’s on the rise
Shovels and two pairs of boots.
When the deepest lake’s turning cold
And chairs are folding up
Cider’s laid to rest
Shovels and two pairs of boots.
I want to go off and into something else
I’m not here anymore, left blowing into the wind.
Where does my pain come from every night?
Leave me there, it’s in my soothing song.
It’s not lines I’ve drawn across my head
Nor lines that draw my sheet to bed,
It’s circles running down my cheeks
To smother every heartbeat I don’t want to forget.
I’ve lost the difference in my dreams,
They’ve come into my days with open eyes
Reaching out to what I see;
Reflections shaking out in twilight’s lake.
Harmony will be my memory’s drawing
As I lay my bedding down as straw,
Take my hand with what I’ve yet to say
And brush my dusty shoes so that it’s here I’ll stay.
Pastures played at my little dream
Set aside too many plans
And I’m calling home today
For it’s harvest season
Pickers needed at the farm
Pulling legumes and blossoms from
Rows and corners of every acre
Wild and planned, Bounty’s real.
So the pasture’s calling my name.
Tangle me whole –
Fraying at edges,
Confused and scarred
Sacred and empty.
Faith lasts
Yet water runs dry
And hallowed river banks
Leave tears running
Down my spine
Tangling me whole
Lifting me up and
Scraping my sides
With sandstone and thorns.
Let my ankles
Caress each meadow
And place my soul in the sky.
Let me go there
Without the torment
Of a rising sun, low
Crowded dusty road
And I’m swimming
Way out past my soul.
One day I’ll be there
A small lineup with a ten
Guardian on the rise
And I’m seeing signs
With footsteps leading in.
The last frontier
A land without reassurances
Insurances
Propagation and planning
Responsibility
Idealistic values of bequeathing
Handing down
Lost
Forgotten while paying bills
Forgotten while building lists
Forgotten in the lineup
For groceries we could grow
And plastics we don’t need
And products we discard
And inconvenient conveniences.
The last frontier
Pulls back allowances,
Disregards misused rules,
Plays fearless.
The last frontier
Rides the whole wave in
Over what’s screaming and yelling
What’s poking and scraping
What’s pulling at the conscience
To be prepared and out of the moment.
The last frontier
Is the silence at the end
And the symphony in climax,
Gathering speed
And surviving with breath
After all has come, gone,
Realizing everything is as it should,
The heart beats on,
The challenges still arise,
And the feet sink just a little further
Into the soft sand
Beneath toes
That fight for what they believe in.
Tin cans
Easily forgotten plastic
Please rinse
I don’t want to make my way in a barren landscape
The thought overwhelms me, loses my hope.
It loosens my grip and forces me
Into an unforgiving reality
That stops at every stop sign,
Red lights my deepest dreams,
And perpetuates my winter footsteps,
Fading to black.
Who’s got that hat on the floor?
Someone’s burning at the other end
Smoke trails and it’s begun
For the last of the cobblestones have shattered
Into night’s mystery, coo-coo, coo-coo.
Though one long sidewalk dance
Let it be called a clean romance
Cigarette’s burning down some more
Her eyes still singing forever in implore.
Judged like the colour of pure milk
A canvas rolled into the corners ilk
While every patron danced around the room,
Spilled wine and tossed off shoes
And pearls upon every hearted romance,
As art, given at most likely chance.
It was late, early as the birds wake. The sun making it’s trajectory project through blind slits that tickled my nose and ruffled pure white sheets that smelled of everything I had ever dreamed. I wished I had worn my own button up so she could wear it, cotton thoughts underneath the purest thoughts I could believe, her ear lobe dangerously close to my sanity I buried deep into the sleepy eyes she wiped away.
She was business and I was coffee on Sunday morning. Her ancient wooden bowls with carved and stained mosaics sat on bare shelves between three curiously new vinyl records I had yet to identify or spin, so my bare feet sadly ripped spaces beside this cocoon to leave invisible heat scores on a treasure hunt around pieces of clothing that each had still alive memories attached, each a little puddle of our reserve that began as we stepped towards our island.
As the needle scratched dangerously towards the first note, it was the crackling that trumped even her cigarette into casual, I spotted her pinstripe skirt, now draped across the wicker chair underneath a baby blue Fender Telecaster she had plugged into a tiny hand held amplifier to show me what she knew of blues.
I propped myself up with her pillow and through the patio window I saw she was looking at me.
