Pocket Knife (day 2272)

A handy man should always have
A pocket knife by his side
No better friend in times of need
Could come to be at the ready
Rope was made for just the tool
So was whittling by the fire
And opening each bag of tools
Was fit just for that knife’s service.
Eager was the folding knife
Tucked away discreetly in thy pocket
So, then, was the fixed blade
Attached at a leather belt secure
To become of such valiant service.
For each man holds on to their tools
In which way feels right to them,
So no man shall defame a man
Who holds a knife at the ready
A handyman recognizes a good man
Who keeps a pocket knife ready for service.
But just as important for the handyman
A sharp blade makes one smile
A stone that keeps a blade able
For any task that rests at hand
No handyman should relax as if
Their blade be forever sharp
It is forever right that a handyman keep
Beside every dressing table to thy name
A handyman should keep right there
A handyman’s sharpening stone.

Snow Fell Calmly (day 2107)

From depths I could hold a rope
Cold from my very hard struggle
A frosted window reminds me
Of a sister I once shared
My latest secrets with every other day
A shadow that reaches for my hand
Can take me again, can take me again
Spring comes again
Where once snow fell calmly
And golden eyebrows caressed me
With arcs lacking recollection
In a pool of my own reflection,
Looking back, looking back today.

The Boxer (day 1933)

You were a boxer
Every Thursday night
After Big Jim’s Saloon
Took a bottle and you
Out to a cobblestone night.
A muffled mind with intention,
Fireworks covered in mud,
And a slow slur that wound up
Like Roadrunner
Walking a tightrope,
The top rope
Of a dark, four cornered ring.
You liked the big city
Because your slow down
Never coincided with a dead end.
Your betting days
Flashed jackpot on your bedroom wall:
Red, green, and yellow.
And your highschool sweetheart
Hung alone on peeling paper
That crackled back at you
As you walked naked
From your bedroom
To a comfortable routine
You knew so well.

Dusty Boulders (day 1857)

Take this blood and run it along an irregular line from here to there, for there is no longer a fountain of youth screaming for more sticks and balls; left for dead there is only a pulse of electricity surging away into a stream of monotony.

But where does each screaming echo fall?

Twisting it’s way through sandstone crevices along a dried river basin, footsteps led aimlessly uphill in search of a higher plateau that might offer a view of the future, or lead to a three feet wide round door of periscope and a three strands of hemp rope holding a dangling sign that read: “Welcome. Please come in.”

If all was lost, there would be no now, for now is not lost as a pinch can accost.

While large maple leaves unfurled to beckon in the Summer, a slow and sweet amulet of sweat rested nicely between the bosom of naked pixie, casually watching the dried river splash over dusty boulders.

At Sea’s Shore (day 1500)

Wisdom is an empty sea
And I have gone too far.
I lost my rope, my sign, my star
To keep me mind at ease.
But in this dream my mind was free!
Not holding on as tar,
A flow that never was thy scar.
For if the heart pulls back to flee
The soul knows: nevermore,
Which leaves a man in misery –
A fate no soul should score.
So which of you are ready for:
The lad with eyes of mystery,
Or a maiden waiting at sea’s shore?

Sailing (day 387)

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