For if I got to sail’s end
Upon the glee of life
Should shake the dust
From each thy sword
To battle, ho! Thy fun!
Not of angry blood spilled
In trod battlefield,
Nor in a race of men,
But in thy quest of spiriting
Each bone amidst my quest.
Shake me, again!
For should I not arise
To meet each day with grit,
I should sooner be trampled afoot
Each horse drawing mighty Hades
Crumpled into an unfit mess
Deserveth of lack spent.
So gracefully, then,
I grab thy sword
Clean ‘er pommel to point
Place her not to rest at bay
Amidst cocooning leather bound,
Place her strong within thy grasp
Of ambition and desire for life!
Tag: men
Looking For This (day 3035)
I am looking for this.
All of my efforts and truths
Are running in parallel with my actions.
I am calling to my inner self,
Feeling my bones rumble
At each swing I make,
Splitting my observations into fragments
That live long in the hearts of men
Who come and sit and talk.
Yet this action has no idle,
It bears resemblance to sweat
Breaking the cloth in toil,
For when the sun rises in the East,
Each drop of frost rises
Like the man I am looking for.
Machete (day 2611)
I go to bed late and forget to leave the evening candle burning
It sits beside my machete that waits for another attack
That ripped my great grandmother from her life
These Wild Men came, ignoring her fire
Her embers burned yet they stole with little regard
Fair play existed when hands were harder
When banks weren’t lawmakers
Lawless was irrelevant to those who upheld order
Gunslingers or good singers or Moonshiners all made their way
Through the land of hard work, good cooking, and square dances
And my machete sits sharp
Old Wagon Road (day 2608)
There used to be a sign
Along the Old Wagon Road that read:
“Past here is what’s ahead
Gone is what’s behind
Don’t turn back for anything
Or the sight will leave you blind.”
Seventeen men were said
To have taken ill advice
Whos remains are rumored laid
Ten paces from that sign.
But if you keep towards the road,
Visions that brought you forth
The Old Wagon Road will help
The slope and yours align.
Not many have ever failed here,
Though not many have dared come
But many’ an hour still to spend
Upon the Old Wagon Road.
Moon at Midnight – Part XXXXXXVIII (day 2042)
After seven full days of talks
Mountain Chief decided that we would stay where we were
And let the White Man’s determination
Determine our future
Our hopes were that we would remain safe
Where we were, uninvolved
But I knew that they would eventually come looking for us
However, I knew it would be more peaceful if we stayed out
Of the wars that were happening
Everywhere upon these lands, apparently.
It was also made known to everybody
The dangers of keeping U.S. Army enemies
That is, members of other tribes on the run
In our own homes
As the U.S. Army would most likely
Come looking for them
It was also made known that some of the men
Would be going off to help
Some of the other tribes
This caused tension
About whether or not Mountain Chief would allow back
Any man that went away to fight
But eventually Mountain Chief decided the right thing
And said those who decided to fight
Would always be welcome by his fire
Seven men with family in other tribes
Left after two days preparing,
After much ceremony,
And all for us returned to our usual simple life
In our mountain valley.
Moon Cow and I talked about going on a hunt
So we asked Long Arrow and Runs Wild,
Mercy’s man and eldest child,
To see if they wanted to come hunt with us
They of course were always eager
So we left after a day of preparations
Happy to be wild and free again
Searching through the forest
Using our instinct and skill guide us.
Moon at Midnight – Part IV (day 1978)
(part III)
As I sat crosslegged in the little clearing
Hidden as I was, deep within the forest
Heading East to the land of the Old People
I wondered about the faces I might see,
Faces of the men and women who would greet me,
Faces of the children playing in fields
And fields growing with the vigor
Only well cared for fields of tender hands can grow
I knew I would find
In the land of the Old People.
Beside me was a little patch of buttercups
That skirted the edge of deeper forest
Fallen logs and fir needles of this land
I could still hear the brook I had crossed
Calmly gurgling in the distance
My canteen still cold from its fill
My belly still churning from its fill
My fingers still wet and a cold
Only fresh mountain water can give,
A cleaning happily taken
Where I had let my bare feet soak gently a while.
My eyes scanned into the forest
Of an age I guessed ageless
Not a stump to be seen
Finding geometry in naturally fallen trees
Trees standing so tall my guess couldn’t reach
Moss covering so gently
I envisioned the industry nestled
Deep within the safety net of moss
That lay about thickly covered forest floor
Fungus’ mycelia layer hidden well
In healthy circles around the Ancient Giants
Old Man’s Beard hanging low
And spider webs zig-zagging
With its delicate fibers of care.
My pouch was always on me
No matter how far from camp I wandered
So as I moved away from my opening
I felt instinctively for my tools
Stepping over former soldiers
Rotting as life continued its circle
Through the efforts of decay
My soft crunch avoided the mounds
Finding edible mushrooms was easy
This early season of harvest
Upon edges of clearings I’d find strawberries
And blueberries and salmonberry brambles
So thick I’d get high
Feeding so heartily on such sugar
I knew it wouldn’t stay forever.
Fire starting was an economy no man could do without
No sane man that is,
For plenty of nights I’d been cold
In pure darkness of deep night,
But this night I had supple moss
And accessible wood dry enough to start
A warming dance in my blood
Soon the coals were hotter then the wood
That burned inside their whispers
My bed was simply a roll
The hard ground was something I was used to
I carried soft fur of a bear
On the top of my bag
Which I’d lay under my roll
To soften each night’s cold
My dream of a sheepskin
I had read about in books
Of old foreign herdsmen roaming
Highlands of Scotland
But I with my simple roll
Laid out on the ground.
Bloody Little Soldiers (day 1744)
Diamonds and bootleggers and a minx on her shoulder
A lady of delight and her little soldiers
Crawled through dark night in pure delight
As whimsical militia men signaled a charge
But what of the giant whose knees’re all bloody?
What of sight who stands tall and proud?
One Armed Row (day 1684)
Night’s fog had rolled on in
Long voyage to harbour – land ho!
Land at last for this ragged show.
Three fog horns led our fearless captain –
A man too honest for sailor’s gin,
All the way to One Armed Row.
Choicest of ales, where great seamen go,
And also toiled our captain’s sin.
She smiled at all who crossed the hearth:
Fodder for jealous types stuck out in open sea;
Mirth for all at One Armed Row.
Our captain, pure soil of the earth,
Led his men, each as anxious as he
To find what seeds they each could sow.
Lights In the Park (day 1568)
Where I come from, wounded soldiers are hid behind shadows and only come out at night when small dogs are being walked by wobbling, aging men wearing the same thing they’ve worn for 20 years. The leash, however, fits just as it should. I wonder, rather curiously, what sports or video game they’re missing as they pull the mutt home.
When I sit and stare at the business, it rolls by in a drawl so thick, screaming girls in stretch limos seem normal down city streets where younger hip dudes with Chuck Taylors on discard the evening’s steaming pile of dog shit into an overflowing disposal bin painted green.
Lights on a distant sports building shift through the lower half of the color spectrum, causing the young girls white dog to turn a more rusty yellow. I try not to look at her puppy while she ruffles the poop bag. Young white boys talking in a foreign tongue park their father’s white suburban in a permit required zone and pass their joint around as if it’s their first nudie magazine at summer camp.
I sit silently, sipping on my micky of Sailor Jerry’s and pretend there’s nobody I’m thinking of and somebody to walk home to. I left the light on beside the bed to give off some sort of impression anyways.
Captain Black Gun (day 1371)
Never alone he traveled the Seven seas
In sound and perfect harmony
Like wisdom is a memory
Clear blue days were sanctimony.
For our strong Captain whose sea was his own,
We fought together – bonded right strong,
Aligned was his order at once to every cause,
Slave to the Master, Master of us all.
Lost in distances were clear mountain peaks
Of a land no longer home that we’d set off from,
Wives and lovers we’d taken on who
Intently listened for our great song carrying on.
With strength of a thousand men strong
Our ship broke mooring, the voyage was on.
All hands on deck looked forward, ho!
Minds focused intently on journey begun.
Land became imagination that coo’d our souls
Quietly to sleep, rocking to and fro.
To every morning, as we woke to clear day,
Cheap sailors rations to make us row.
Night to day and dark to dawn,
Feign attempts at moving on.
A sailors dream but lasts two days,
Quickly blown and torn away.
It’s here where brotherhood arises,
Amidst thick fog and setting horizons;
A common quest, through all disguises,
Men! Heave-ho! Booty and prizes!
Aye! To think the lot a mere bunch of sailors?
Ruddy men dancing with nightly fancies!
Whence stopped at port, may the best man win!
Captain Black Gun and his notorious escort.
Tis’ not all easy for the roughest of men
Amidst all deceit lives honesty then,
A Pirate’s code delivered in blood
Rests all accused deep below their judgment plank.
And as time comes for setting on,
Morning awaits, mooring long gone,
For silently creaking we steal away
Locked in our treaty of the great Pirate code.
Off again then, land locked lovers lament,
Open sea and sweet smelling air.
All becomes lost, save the fresh smell
Of a clear sunny day and wind in our hair.
So whenever you hear tell of a sailor’s ship
Sailing through the Seven seas at a magnificent clip,
Think to yourself of Captain Black Gun
And the legend that carries the Pirate code strong.
