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The Drifter
Revenge doesn’t pay. Not even in the wild west. My intention was to write a sliver of life from the wild west, focusing on setting the mood and attitudes through descriptors and limited speech, and reflecting that period of time. This is a minimalistic approach to poetic story-telling. Similar to the method in which I wrote Revelations and Still, The Waters Call. 1: The Stage The day stretched as long as a hangman’s noose stifling in its sincerity as a spring dayLazy day shadows crept ever deeper A slow, melodic picking of a guitar set the toneWeather-worn fingers strum across a gut string tunerLeathered face under the wide brim…
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Revelations
Night of the howling moonWhispers of a fate to comeGateway’s heavy chains rattleSpirits attune to the summoningWisps of dragon’s breath fills the darknessA yawning chasm cracks open Whispers on the wind:come sing to us Upon the mount they waitInsanity, a temporary measureAll thought dissolvedPreening wails of delightScratching, crawling, bitingTearing at each other And yet, whispers on the wind:come play with us Thunder rumbles in the distanceCracks of lightning streak across the red skyEarth shakes with nervous anticipationThe storm approachesIts winds grow fierceThe prophesies of the Book of Joel revealed Voices carry on the wind:come be with us A lone wolf circles the mount, haunches highRed hatred its only sightGuardian of…
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Woven
A vast and desolate placeA sleek, dark voidThe pit of remembrance A memory of once long agoA sweet moment of brief respiteLost in the moon tide A voice devoid of emotionAn old record on a turntable — the end of a sad songScratching at the surface of consciousness A set of eyes that cannot seeA pair of hands that ache to touchEternal pain without knowing truth A basket woven of humanityA black tentacle weaving through our soulsJoining us forever in obscure machinations of life A moment of clarityA chilling truthThe façade is finally over. Life Series #3 Previous in the series: Jade Vine Next in the series: The Kiss
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Driver
We wander through life, it seemsWithout aim or direction Waiting for something magical to happenAlways waiting or delaying or procrastinatingNow that’s a word: procrastination Life seems to be one long stall of actionYes, we go through the motions We get up, work, go to bedThe monotony of lifeThat can’t be all there is This pattern repeats time and againIf this were all there was to life What would be the point?We ask ourselves, what would be the point?The point, someone might say, is not to do it Surely we are not here merely to take up spaceIn this vast world of living organisms Weeds and wild flowers tend to sprout at willAny given place…
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Still, The Waters Call
For miles the still ocean calls to me; its voice clear, clean, empty. “Why are you here?” it asks. Why indeed. “I’ve come to write among the waters,” I answer.“Life-giving and hearty, they are; in hopes I will too gain that which is abundant.” “You are not one of us,” it breathes heavily. “Ah, but I am also water.Can you not feel it?” I ask. A pause. A gentle swell of waves. “Come to us so that we may feel you,” it says.Nervous, anxious energy. “Yes,” I murmur. My limbs descend into the silky fluid that is water; my torso submerges.Slow currents caress me.I am home. “We feel you,” it says,“Welcome.” One last swirl and…
