Callused and painful
I’ve lost Eagle
Blown in the wind
It went so high
Into the sky
Upon a new mission,
Found a gliding wing
And left me here;
Eagle gone free.
It found me on
One cold night
In Northern Ontario
Blew in on a cold gale
Upon the torn up and buggered banks
Of Huron in a golden hour.
Like a mystic thought gone,
Eagle and me
Our fond memory.
My music had been lying
Unconscious and dramatized
– Callused time
All punishing –
To which an alarm woke
Each beast left inside
– Growling
They stood tall –
Two of them
Wore combat boots
The rest
Barefooted
Yelled at me
– I hardly
Heard a whisper –
And here I stood
Bespoke
Awoken to my rhyme
I don’t walk with a swagger
I’m not a callused hand
I don’t wish for stars
Or four leaf clovers
I sing with a guitar that holds a tune
But my voice is held under water
In a rusty tin can
So I sleep in a cold corner
With a sore back on my side
I run out of gas
When I’m driving too fast
And my knives all go blunt
So my pencils aren’t sharp
But I’m still trying hard
To grow something again
A callused hand is my tomorrow;
You’re never far behind.
Leave alone the matted mess
That flirts with every question
For in the envelope of time
Was never sort of guessing, no,
All that was ever called
To surface of the law
Was packaged neatly, sorted, drawn,
And placed into a manilla – shut
Stamped with half ones love
I screamed from head to feet
With dragging dreams
Slipping down the lonesome path
Of all I’ve ever wanted.
And from here a whisper started,
Like a row of columns
Three hundred feet tall;
Built by the hands of iron giants
Who spoke only in grunts.
My itchy trigger finger
Gargled a strong glass of salt water,
And spit truth onto dry solid ground
That crackled underneath the weight of my
Soft leather soles, wrapping their
Loose ends half way up my calf.
Thankfully I knew how to walk,
I knew that all good things
Come at the end of the row,
So I buttoned up my callused shell
And I rolled on.
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Mystically speaking, the proverbs are relating accurately;
Horizontally strengthened with the thinnest of threads
Circled around my baby finger exactly 29 times
In a very tightly strewn pattern, accidentally.
Insomniac. Running at top speeds with wild horses;
That old farmhouse sitting amongst poppies and buttercups
Where I’ve lived once before; a feeling from depths unexplainable
Leveraging it’s way amongst modernities.
So it was a callused palm that broke this frozen spell;
Alone upon a park bench of inner city, inner beauty,
Brook bubbling by with homeless and suits (much quicker)
An eye awoke to stretch it’s glorious wings wide.
To which I had never encountered before;
To who I had never held hands with before;
To where I had never stepped in and amongst before;
To here, to this home of a quietly broken fear.
Sailing
High up upon the alpine peaks
Like birds
Silently gliding through space
Enjoying
Every little whip of air sent
Callused
Outstretched hands pull tighter
The rope
Holding together the loose bits
Carefully
Knit into one solid piece of fabric
I’ve been here before
This local hole
This traffic pattern
This left over dismal
Pit of destruction
Perhaps it’s maybe not that bad
Perhaps it’s maybe a lost cause
I’ve pulled on this string
Left it alone and desolate
Barren in it’s future
without hope and lost
Callused and abused
Perhaps it’s its design
Perhaps it’s just counseling
I’ve calmed down these gates
Without warning I’ve left
The hope has lasted again
I’ll wake tomorrow and see
That the work is finished
Callused hands retire the nails
Deep within the stones
Breaking bricks with mortar encrusted
Lifeless disdain
Truth! Let it last forever
Let if flow from the origins
Through the fields of glassy cotton
Past the trees, grandeur in size
Given time the growth shall rupture
the pin pricked stones
Covering all ground with divine grace
Seeping sin like blood transfusions
Alas the truth it envisions
A new look, upon the dry bones
Capturing every bit of dead skin
The growth shall offer: forever bliss