A rural mistake
Guarded by bats
At the raw oysters
Sitting on the table
One spoke a word
That called out in a jest:
“How dare you speak
Of trash in such a tone!”
So the mail was gathered
Street was paved
Lawn was mowed
And the car was deiven
Straight off the cliff.
I finally lost it
Dying embers of a blue hidden sun
Closing in on the gypsy caravan
Callused and tired
Sweat perspiring in long streaks
Slight rustling of nearby poplar trees
And the echo of every footstep
Beating out of tune with thy heartbeat.
One last moment
Erased the pain
No longer present
Between shoulder blades and spine,
A hoot broke the echoing
Going deeper inside my brain
A distant owl
Awake to the day
Unaware the danger
Of finding myself in
So the path led twisting
Towards a deeper understanding
Of fungii and lichen
Flora and the rot of its day
Until the madness set in
Spiraling to tree tops touching open sky
And a little beaver dam turned waterfall
I am gone in the order of gratitude
Baked cookies and a overflowing milkshake
Beans for supper but hold the pudding
I’m watching the stars go around again
But Polaris makes me spin around
This collaboration expanding in an exhaust of pain
For a two letter word in a five tree forest
Begun the path, no return
Running silently I empty each bag
Carried for so long, straps begun worn
And something thus calls me, standing I’m alert
Hollering and hollering, Thusurathar
Name me again, gratitude remains.
These days I find myself revolving around an open ended question.
I dont find myself worried or left on a cliffhanger,
No, these notes dont sound good on the breath of discovery,
My walnuts are chesnut brown
And my drawers are filling up with notes
That have inches and arrows scribbled
Upon their worn and wearing shoulders.
You see, the game is but a dice I’ve been carving.
No choice wrong just doing and not doing.
A collaboration of antivibration
Has taken its seat next to the campfire I sit at nightly,
With a small dosage of 5% ABV
But the streetlight illuminates my path home
Though I walk through dirt and pastures
To find my bedroll and cedar.
So I ask the questions that need no solving
But need collaborating,
I ask the answers I know,
But believe the cosmos knows too
For in believing in that orbit
I have put faith in my family,
And my family has led me right into discovery
With an open ended question
Resting on the lips of eager grasshoppers.
I’m going to split myself into unending characters
That rasp along to a slow tune or jangle
Waiting for a sunset slip – in to make me better
I said carry me away!
With something dragging behind I needn’t care for
Lurching, weaving, my staggered step keeps leaving
Why did it ever matter that this meaning had punctuation
Drawling leftover party pleaser at midnight
Taken too much sugar glitter!
And Madonna playing quietly as gamblers swing their weight
With a pretty little dancer making eyes across the room
I am endeavoring to depart, avoiding unnecessary chatter
Closing out this night as a single dusty platter.
I’ve grown accustomed to leaves turning my memories from fresh to curled, a well understood paradox that changes the tide so romantically it hurts like the small spots beside the bulging veins growing inside.
My smile has grown lines, my heart has extended its beats, my hearing has begun to dance with angels upon the dead leaves blowing along the roughly trampled ground – are these our memories we have yet to experience, or have they been forgotten and left to dissolve into earth?
So I crouch down low and embrace the softly blowing wind that helps me to see my passing time I used to think I loved, I used to want to love, so here I’m hurting from spatial infrequencies that cup my involuntary spasms from underneath the table and remind me to forget to itch the pain.
Does this leaf know it crumbles within my palm so slowly softly? Did it reach for me in a pure moment of thought, expecting my return upon amber wings of a sun soaked day like an emotional Prometheus on a personal mission.
Then, like the ashes of memories crumbling in scaled hands of our Phoenix, so too shall sun rise again over the horizon of a small family farm to bring with it a wet spring full of insight and gratitude that runs the width and depth of a heart shaped leaf settling softly upon a well worn path of insight.
Display my song upon a branch
Next to leaves that swing
I’ve become a drop of sunshine that
Is flowing through each tree.
Be my smile within a bloom
A symphony of beaming joy
I woke here with such helpful hands
Shining through in every way.
Let my movement carry energy
That floats like a gypsy bus
Side to side and turning wide
Jamboree through each squeaky hub.
As if in the ransack of time a little mouse could foresee such a circumstance, little unbeknownst to him and his furry paws scuttling to and fro about the forest floor – roots for here and roots for there, but left in a random mess that danced like bliss – as the owl hooted loud the shakey graves below the folly could tell ten thousand stories of arching madness and screaming terror; look out look out look out my friend, I have not come to be thy penance, no, I am here to hold thy candle brighter, to make thy night much less weirder, to the side of willow river and make a dart into thy deepened hole of safety and say to thy family you love them better and listen to your little mice that complain of washing and complain of chores but lead your life as you best can for times will come and leave you better beside the river and your cavern and your pretty mice wife, hither.
There was no moon at midnight
And my road was clambering on
I saw what appeared to be shadows
But from what direction I could not see the source
Nor could I understand their movement
For my breath was beating strongly
Inside my mind that couldn’t sit still.
They say whenever you’re lonely
To hug a tree in the woods,
That everything will be better
Once you listen to the wind through leaves.
But my footsteps weren’t taking me there
My trees were full of eyes
That growled when I got too close
My fire had died down to a whisper
Which danced away upon every breath
That beat so wildly inside.
I tried turning my back to the fire
So I could let my eyes adjust to darkness
Cold dampness swept into my chest
That left my fingers clinching at the dirt
I sat cross-legged on ash
That was surely trying to make it’s way
Up the inside of my leg
Like slowly crawling worms
With no direction home.
My fingers felt like dust
Long gone into a night with no end.
Slowly my eyes began to make out a hue of indigo
Through the trees that crept ever closer
With a faint scent of a silhouette
That began to sing me a song
Reminding me of Joan Baez singing acapella
Which always led me to Bob Dylan
And one of his nearly alarming harmonica solos.
Stars began to blink at me
Through gusting fog that sped
As fast as the dying harmonica sounds.
I could begin to see markings
Upon the bark of the nearest Douglas Fir trees
Bark so thick that my hands impulsively
Rubbed each other
Acutely feeling dusty skin on the back of my hands
As life began to seep back into them,
Shocked one too many times
From the dark night that lay behind.
I pulled my wool blanket closer
Remembering I am a warrior
I am made of two hard feet
That carry me on through a winding
Needle covered path
Weaving past lagoons and over boulders
Over roots and upon grass
Sometimes lost and always home
And rusty feathers settled beside me
Wishing me goodnight, so I fell asleep.