Walking through the ancient forest
I pick up broken sticks
I pick up what has left the home
To wander alone, to wander, Ranger.
Many times I’ve shared my thoughts
With wholesome handsome faces,
In a trunk of ancient bark
I sing songs of fallen trees
That show me signs of what has begun
In silver rays of spying lightness
And broken sticks below my foot
Though an ancient forest I remain.
Listen to raindrops fall
I thought I heard to let it go
Sadness in an old song
And my heart is letting go
To me, I’m still beating there
Go back, take the slower track
In a mind of losing me
I called out to a golden eagle
Take me to the sun
Today I ran today I run
Today I found a trail
Through a suffering forest
They call Ancient Wisdom
I led my heart
Through the roots
To place it at a base
Of Old Man Beard and his setting sun
That bled my raindrops dry.
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.
photograph courtesy of model / Lisa // photography / Jen Hill
Your holy high is the rise to my shine
A moment of passage in mind
With a long list of ancient goddesses
Calling out my wild name.
Pause to reflect, innocent syndicate
Step light with our toes
Toes toes toes toes
In forever reverberate
Get undulated pride high
At the top of my wigwam
And dance on
To the ageless rhythm of our bright future.
I’ve written about an ancient earth
Left to crawl alone, alone.
Shaken and blurred with ghastly turd
To wrastle for each their top.
All in time a second chance
To few artistic Dionysians,
Who left their mark in deep white sand,
Unintelligible and very discreet.
I am an ancient sailor who
Has sent in for the weather,
Cigarette and pea coat fending
Off my worst of every thoughts.
But aye, the closest thing to land
Is but a mirage in my eye,
So I will keep on biting in
To my twist of tobacco blood.
A sadness which has my heart is the deepest joy I have ever known. A snaking coil in my veins that surges with pressure of an ancient gale, fierce in spirit, surfacing upon it’s vista. I have come to realize I am the coloration, the reminiscent artifact of ashes smearing an impossible black sand beach at the head of the trust waters. My song is what trees sway to, sitting about the shoreline untouched by humanity’s destructive progress and filled with such contrast, from lightness to a darkness deep within the bosom of her mossy embrace. My song reaches to the toenails while standing barefoot upon this cold black sand, embracing wind as it blows every last hair drawn fabric about thy heart. My heart is forever in liberty, just as these black pebbles cackle at retreating waves. My heart is a mariner with a squint of foggy shorelines, and my sadness is forever the rope mooring our rowboat beached upon this black sand beach.
Your heart rings on the bars of my faint memory
Tingling windows that never seem to open right
While lights flicker from unknown sources
As if silent messengers in night’s sky.
I touch my lips and think about a sensation
Once so familiar to my heart that it left an ocre mark
And scalded the new moon twice since
Leaving rays of blood light shifting my reminiscence.
I cannot wait here long, for leaves follow my mind
Upon a downward spiral to freshly rooted dirt
Awaiting new seeds of our ancient memory
And lifting lines that varicose their way back to my heart.
Crispy wallows and snakes following ancient trails down spirals, leading only to a perfectly spherical, blood-moon-packed dirt bubble where one thousand and one perpendicular lines scarred concave smoothness, remarkably resembling an eerie odessical scene of Labyrinth, David Lynch infused simplicity and snakes. With an omnipresent light leaving no shadows, even in such depths, that echoed with every heartbeat snaking it’s way downward, downward, downward until the downward was no longer downward but stuck in a simple sphere, simply circled as if snakes and ladders were suddenly trapped in an empty crystal ball bubbling with misunderstood and toppled (read:shook) reason that inhabitants were too impatient to digest, leaving perpendicular marks in frightened terror as retraced steps traced their snaking along ancient trails back into the under-root of an atmospheric tragedy they had become familiar with and called home.
To be in a field of yellows here,
Set aside and lightly dusted.
Times we open hearts,
And times we take our shelter,
There are times we can wish for more,
Green it grows it grows it grows.
A dusty footstep leaves a story here,
Wild weeds share ancient scent
That blows and blows and blows
And blows about our ever field.