I come floating to you Mother, dead on the river, body bullet ridden: this is how God reaps His harvest of faith.
See, those columns that support the sky now, carried once the roof of our temple. The fire burning the pyres now carried oblations to our ideals; But we face a jealous God consuming in wrath.
Here I come, un-wreathed, unsung, wet in the tears of the skies, skin carrying scars of resistance, eyes open to the tyranny of faith.
Clutch my hands, let me feel the love that birthed me, one last time before my Spirit moves onward and beyond to the worlds of light.
When I write here of desire
This specific wanting; the how of now,
I am not talking about the tightrope walk of lust,
That pleasant lower belly pull;
A trembling, tugging need.
My wanting right now is for the soft warm crush
Of your hand in mine as we stroll through autumn halls
Bedecked with fallen leaves, the shedding trees
An audience to the resplendence of our love
Which deepens into the season of sleep
With the same inevitability and beauty
As the crispness of the morning
And the birds that heed the calling
Of promised warmth, in another land,
Another space and time.
landing in mind fields
grow like weeds
Water swaying turmoil
Harvesting our love
holding up shields
wanting to give our souls freely
Tending to wounds
The memoirs of agonizing gullibility
Like razor blades to my brain
You take away the pain
Mere words could not explain.
Laughter holds all meaning
To this love lust never fleeting
Repaired damage thriving surely
Through the plains of time
Night air, so tranquil,
accompanied by you and me,
and an ever gentle breeze
soothing our decree.
Words so soft,
spoken like raindrops
making love to a puddle;
majestic discretion revealed
to the only two willing souls
savoring the sky.
Nineteen hours away,
you still manage to sink
into my welcomed chest
as our synched eyes caress
a harvest moon at its finest,
the royal glow ascertaining
a profound truth heavier than
the radiant Venus hanging below
on its translucent string,
swinging with the stars,
swinging in our arms,
in our hearts;
If you choose the seeds carefully you can reap a rich harvest;
Someone choosing the seeds for you may yield nothing but a barren land
Living off your love and care to create a future unstable
Till you realize that you are left with nothing
But till then it’s too late, as your territory has been breached
Wait till you replenish your emotions, your tears to water the land
Another year will usher a land ready to plant a rich harvest
I tripped over a BBQ brush
We exchanged a nod
Then I thanked him for getting the gristle out
Above me a plane flew into the harvest moon
And bled diamonds into the sky
I found a broken pipeline marker
And wrote your name in the sand
Then blew it across the cityscape
I saw the light catch the grains
And hoped that the wind might carry it
To a lamp near you
Thirty- four hundred feet above the sea
In Appalachian hills Blue Ridge
An eighty year family tradition
Lives a story rich and unabridged
Harvest time fills the mountain air
Vines line rows with trained precision
Both European and French American
Varieties produce a delectable collision.
Hummingbirds light on Miss Ruby's pink petals
Oak branches sway vessels of Riesling and Merlot
Kaleidoscoping spheres of cobalt, crimson,and gold
Beguile all into tranquility with fruit's flow.
Miss Ruby butterfly bushes were being
entertained by dancing butterflies.
Hundreds of empty wine bottles were suspended
from tree branches as the sun shined through them
casting beams, a kaleidoscope of colors, to stain our skin.
I seek a harvest of hope and bliss
You reap what you sow, it is said
But sow as you may, hope and bliss requires
A willful soul and mindful heart where
Malicious spirits abound
Making the ground fallow and unworkable
A vermin called dogmatism and self-righteousness
Seek to emasculate a once fertile land
How do we reverse this pestilence?
I say hope should not despair
Our union with the universe
Guides our way
Our reward is bliss
In the old days, there was a plentiful harvest of words, but only a few heard them - truly heard them. These words fell from the sky like manna, only to be trampled upon, tossed away, and quickly forgotten. At high noon, a rising murmur not unlike the rumbling of thunder burrowed itself into the earth and festered, intensifying even as the colors of nature intertwined and coagulated into a mottled brown-grey. The people covered their ears to block out the horrible shrieks, but to no avail. For what seemed like an eternity, the whole world engaged in a frenzied danse macabre.
And then there was silence.