The stream (all workshops)
Canto Seven ~ It is Late at night and the boy crouches near waiting for his hostage to wake. He has ministered to the warrior’s injuries and takes only passing note of how swiftly they appear to heal. All accrued in combat with a monster the boy knows nothing about. His anxiety grows.
The man is more exquisite than any he has brought here and of a strange nature whose origins play tantalizingly at the memories he denies.
A car, I can't see the driver, rolls down the hill
across from the ravine that is my view.
It's white and gone; now only the tree tops,
green with buds, wave and jitter in the wind.
Anne's Refraine
In wanting I wait
the sealing of fate
in the dank gloomy womb of my room.
I pace and I scratch
at the rust ridden latch.
"To scold and to hold.", I fume.
Time is a harpy
binding me sharply.
I bleed with misdeeds
to my doom?
When guilty they hail
handled, hauled from my jail.
Relief for my grief I presume.
In wet windows high
I know He draws nigh
a bloated blood stone.
I defy!
THE SASKWATCH
Now if you sit quietly, and don't make a fuss,
I'll tell you a story, for no one but us.
About a strange creature, who came from the woods,
A creature who'd wreck our good lives if he could
For I was quite young then, and ran with the pack.
We were all timber wolves and we'd HOWL and we'd BARK
And how the men feared us, for we were so strong.
We hunted the deer, (and some men - was that wrong?)
Leaning with my tousled
head the morning like
a gin cloud
my girl speaks in alphabets
her voice a tainted angel
loud
A tinsel tack with money
back the dealers out of town
and were riding 6B junction
down to the suicide corner
out of town
all of the plans arise and
fall sound of tenant television
in the halls
shes wearing day old Bergamot
the paisley shirt
the tired skirt
the hot expanse of morning
sun glints off chrome
Let The Blind See (after all It’s one of his miracles)
What blindness god bestows,
on such a stupid race as mine.
No light from this man glows,
still they swallow every line.
Can none but your sinners see,
how false and greedy is his house.
How much better life would be,
if his enlightenment we’d douse.
There’s no fairness off vicar or priest,
when they pass out his goodwill.
Political wealth controls his beast,
while a poor man’s life stands still.
The scenery blusters by up close
and in the distance, the hills are but walls
and neither adds nor subtracts from anticipation.
The destination always receives “top billing”
however, commaderie with one’s companions…
and the destination pale in it’s comparison to, the journey.
Color my eyes with landscapes a plenty…
buffer my personality with yours,
and let’s augment the wait and duration with that of a kaleidoscope;
for we, and we alone own the hours,
our moments in waiting
to arrive “fresh”, into the future.
okay then divorce!
having studied humanity across the internet, and world,
I have come to just a single observation
on divorce….
women want as much independence as men
at times they are better too,
but men can't take it down lying
so to say,
thus they their spouses way lay….
more than the ego bash
which enforces clash
it’s the construction of the human form…
they say by divine….
women get convulsions owing to hormones,
while men having two heads
listen to just one, the lower
I am a powerless pawn
In a dangerous game
I am only a victim,
With no reason or name
I am his captive
He holds my fate
My future looks bleak
As he closes the gate
No one can see this
No one but me
My bonds are invisible
They think I am free
But loving him
Is not a choice
It’s demand on my heart
It strangles my voice
I live in terror
I fear the worst
And although he assures me
That I’ll never be hurt
I don’t believe him
He’s said this before
dead cigarette poised on the window
the brass dirty latch
There are stars hoisted
on the rusty chains of sin
and a Radio station
hisses faint music
through a missing tooth
crave through me sultry
wire
this damned winter desire
cascades boldly slowly
past the windows tall
and aged
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