Amock (day 2520)

I’m an artistic soul who runs amock
Given in to too many fantasies
Only a hammer to my name
Come and enjoy loving hard
And long haired legged truth
Driving a hard bargain
With a straw hat for the sun
Leaves a weary worker
Leaning in for two more glasses
Reminding him of a ghost
Running deep in his blood
Scoffing at each new penny
Spent in mirths dear folly
Along the road of distant drumming.

Todo (day 2519)

Counting out dollars of an unmarked womans purse
She told me I had nice hair, I said she was rather curt
That is when she told me about her dear old fathers luck
That had run its course as a scholar written from a pen of steel
I was young, she was pretty, we had fun and then we both remained
Dear friends just all the same.
When the water boiled I poured the tea for three
She hadn’t come alone but we seemed to be private
I wrinkled up my nose to an unexpected story
That had me rather wondering when I would ever read his book
So we took just a minute to choose what herbs would do
And we sipped, then we stirred, and sighed until we finished
All the deeds left to do in a scholarly mans todo.

To The Birds (day 2518)

I spoke in whispers I thought only you’d know how to hear
A call upon the window ledge that browns a little more each year
Three mountains on the horizon but only one brings you near
How many times can I watch, each time I see what I’ve never seen
Each time, each year the vision is as dear to me again
And sends drawing down my face one happily yet unspoken tear.

Warm Tea (day 2516)

I’m not Gothic, but I’m made for the edge
I sharpen my pencils with one long steel blade
And whisper in darkness to ghosts running around.

There’s still time for me to walk away,
A path where shrunken skulls remind me
Of voices necromancy.

I’m not here for anything but tea, kind Sir,
Help me bring silence
In this sea of raindrops dragging
For my pencils and warm tea.

Bending Backs (day 2513)

Another day we wait as it rains
A day to refresh the sun
Our tents blow their fresh layer of spray
Upon our bending backs
And our boots slop through the mud
As we putter about what’s become familiarly ours
Yet our eyes cease not their yearn
For the forest upon field’s edge
A forever shifting natural escape
Winding its way through this new season
As our tired hands find their way
Along new lines of worn wood
Waiting for its new home.