Tag: ghost

Torrents of a Storm (day 1198)

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Today I dove into the earth
Straight to my father, Hades.
He spoke of worry, and other sorts
Of malady and ill-practice.
I lamented these points
In great detail, until my eyes filled up
With great regret,
The sorts that has no name.

Persephone, the great King’s wife,
Delighted me with wine,
And as we sat in the great hall
My eyes grew heavier still.
Until the calm of so much storm
Threw me into: unearthed,
I was no longer man, no longer breathed
All I ever was did mourn.

But just as soon as hell did pass,
Just as the ghost had called my name,
I woke at once, with a great start,
And Nothing welcomed me home.
So there was I, burnt inside and out,
Left to be held close by Nothing.
There were no words, but all was said,
Until calm rolled over my mind.

Lost is always a mystery,
A lance driven in by force.
But so is joy and unbound glory,
To the victor go the spoils!
‘Till at last the weeds come out
All laid out for thy viewing,
Where sparks become the ignition
To infinity forever after.

Upon my pony I did gallop,
Into up out and off to my home.
I crawled around and foraged a while
To scavenge for my dinner’s meal.
And there I saw, in haste to my father
I had missed what now spoke to me,
A field of love, in golden ripe
Which at last meant I was at home.

The Number Two (day 1197)

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Laughter is the animal,
Spirit of mother goose.
Summer around little rock
And monkey isn’t right.

Delight a fancy chimney sweep,
Pitter-patter on the roof.
Love in a tin bucket twice
Spitoon for primal juice.

Guns and other ghastly ammunition
Scare a whisper like a ghost,
Take a little sharp arrow
Pierce appointed hour aloof.

My Land | Chapter IV (day 1127)

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As I tracked along the worn path like a good ghost, I watched the pack instinctively. I wasn’t lost in thought, I was the eagle as it circled it’s prey.

I moved past around a lose crop of pines. They held my cover from the resting wolves that lay lapping at the blood soaking their paws and fur. I could smell them just by looking at them, though I was still four houndred yards away.

My long rifle was itching in my hands. I could hear her dancing on my shoulder and looking for a reason.

I can’t win every game of poker but I’ve sure got a good shot when I’m done.

A pioneer must do what a pioneer must get done, and this was my long barrel, the law maker true.

My long barrel smelt of the oil I cared for her with. She had come with me on the pioneer trail, from the eastern seaboard of North America. I had bought it from a gun runner who had probably taken it from the dead hands of an Apache. Regardless, it was a good gun. I was never scared the Apache would catch me (they would have recognized it in the way only a warrior can), I was a quick shot. I was afraid they’d catch me and I’d have no ability to fend for our lives.

[note: to read the full epic track my land]

My Land | Chapter I (day 1124)

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There I would rush around the stone well, the little arch covering darkness and holding a squeaky bucket as it slips. I glide as the dog snarls, hovering just far enough away because it knows what’s good for it.

A deck chair squeaks back and forth like the broken weather vane whispering from the roof. I eye it slowly as sun peaks over my mystery horizon and look around for a glass to quench my thirst. Sometimes a savage I must be.

Small herds of livestock check their watches against the consistency of the grass, it’s not easy being a rambling herd. Especially in these dry times of year, especially with the river running so low.

My spurs rang through the air like the hot sun stung, not a soul around this dry place.

Cursing, I sat down at the weathered kitchen table; a hard seat and cold beans. A window and dusty particles distracting my angel heart, because I am here to love and the long coat isn’t my true calling.

I tracked like the Cheyenne, a good ghost. I could find a trail on a rock boulder. The wind spoke to me as it washed over the vista, and I was a good long shot.

[note: to read the full epic track my land]

Dirty I Dry (day 491)

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I’ve met you on the streets of Athens
Scribbling notes in you paper bound pad
I’ve photographed you sitting in a doorwell
Along the dark streets of Budapest
I’ve handed you change from my own pocket
Calm as I was, poor as I be
Because I’m a fortunate soul
You, begging with a bowl
Most would call an ornament
From the crumbles of Istanbul
Sitting on the stool sipping your tea
I’ve washed in your bathroom
My dirty hands of pain
As I smoked the hookah bong
Struggling forward in the death of desire
Bucharest pulls from my hands
I’ve slept alone with my fathers ghost
Dying in the ashes of a holocaust
Purified in the frozen ocean
Of the forgotten Baltic lands
Riga took away my pain
One knitted scarf at a time
Until my condom did run dry
My bitch dog fattened on the ham discards
As I strolled choking through the graves of kings
And as I stripped bare
And threw myself about the rocky shores of Stockholm
I learnt that I could still walk
In spite my increasing desire
To elevate my feet, out of the rain
Dry, protected with the wax from a can