Cold Sky (day 1396)

I’ve handwritten hate notes
From left to right,
Memorized verbiage
And recited it (in vain).
But every time your
Sorceress’s purple slash
Glowing culdron green hair
Circles around my mind
And escapes in little
Involuntary gasps,
I remember your name
And speak kindly of love
We never shared,
Of memories we never bothered
To sculp. For time,
Like lost memories,
Has slipped between our footsteps,
Taking our visages
Out from in front of
Ten foot windows
To Leave our strange encounters
Reflecting like
Clouds in this cold sky.

Anarchy and His Brothers (day 1387)

With Israel and his son Concordia,
The Conquistadors contemplated anarchy;
“No!” Yelled the city streets
Against windows of innocent glassy puddles.
And thus the lost voice: Arbritage.
So from inside the ancient gold plated doors
Swashbucklers leaned on their pole called history,
Singing songs that rolled off tongues
Like français of an unbroken heart.

The two shook their secret handshake,
Clasped each a moon of waxing gibbous
Deep within their full hearts of innocent desire,
Coughing on fumes leftover from the army
Who had rolled through these streets
To a machine named destruction.

So who was left crying?
Not the lost brothers, silently creeping along
Dead back streets, poorly lit.
No, not the dead brothers waving rebel flags.
Not the flowers, forever resilient
To tumult and it’s darkness.
No, it was the stone covered city
And it’s sister: splinters. 

Coming Home (day 1375)

I’ve been dreaming of the impossible,
The beyond recognition
And what if space that exists
Just beyond steps yet taken
That flicker in and out while
Casually strolling
Through new segments of old paths.

Perhaps one day my imagination
Will ignite some future,
Just as dusty leather bounds
Kindle my growing passion
For a past life’s great moments.

I nurse territory that breeds unexpected, but it must be lizard brain
That keeps me coming home
To my familiar family
I’ve been carefully crafting,
For I’m still clutching tightly
To my worn jeans and
Lucky tooth necklace.

Captain Black Gun (day 1371)

Never alone he traveled the Seven seas
In sound and perfect harmony
Like wisdom is a memory
Clear blue days were sanctimony.

For our strong Captain whose sea was his own,
We fought together – bonded right strong,
Aligned was his order at once to every cause,
Slave to the Master, Master of us all.

Lost in distances were clear mountain peaks
Of a land no longer home that we’d set off from,
Wives and lovers we’d taken on who
Intently listened for our great song carrying on.

With strength of a thousand men strong
Our ship broke mooring, the voyage was on.
All hands on deck looked forward, ho!
Minds focused intently on journey begun.

Land became imagination that coo’d our souls
Quietly to sleep, rocking to and fro.
To every morning, as we woke to clear day,
Cheap sailors rations to make us row.

Night to day and dark to dawn,
Feign attempts at moving on.
A sailors dream but lasts two days,
Quickly blown and torn away.

It’s here where brotherhood arises,
Amidst thick fog and setting horizons;
A common quest, through all disguises,
Men! Heave-ho! Booty and prizes!

Aye! To think the lot a mere bunch of sailors?
Ruddy men dancing with nightly fancies!
Whence stopped at port, may the best man win!
Captain Black Gun and his notorious escort.

Tis’ not all easy for the roughest of men
Amidst all deceit lives honesty then,
A Pirate’s code delivered in blood
Rests all accused deep below their judgment plank.

And as time comes for setting on,
Morning awaits, mooring long gone,
For silently creaking we steal away
Locked in our treaty of the great Pirate code.

Off again then, land locked lovers lament,
Open sea and sweet smelling air.
All becomes lost, save the fresh smell
Of a clear sunny day and wind in our hair.

So whenever you hear tell of a sailor’s ship
Sailing through the Seven seas at a magnificent clip,
Think to yourself of Captain Black Gun
And the legend that carries the Pirate code strong.

 

Georgia-Straight-Ned-Tobin

Maker (day 1365)

I don’t want to hold hands with fate anymore,
I don’t want to believe there’s a right way,
Or that I have a significant impact on worth,
On death, or the elusive act thereof.

With whom shall I grow old with,
If I am not planning it out?
With what shall I enjoy, if gamblers
Keep convincing me I’m right.

Share my soul with wounded hearts!
Hardly healthy and needing.
Share my aches amongst the rocks!
Already scalded sourly
For I am no man fit for redemption,
I am no guest at the gates of fate
And I have brought no gifts for my maker.

Water-Wings (day 1352)

Flatness of my heart
Oscillates up and down,
Up and down.

Up and down.

And up it goes with happy hopes,
Then down it comes,
Weighted against odds.

I use my Phillips screwdriver
To manage the extent to which
My heart goes up,
And my heart goes down.

Like full stops
When I’m out beyond the breakers,
My heart has water-wings
And a soothing buoyancy.