Based on Wordvango's poem
By the same name

Along a rugged
slippery path
We hike or crawl
with crooked staff
We are blind within
the maze
But find the music
phrase by phrase

Through the muck
and spider's lair
Webs that look like
angel's hair
We search, each of
his own accord
For the strum
of the Lost Chord

We all know
the song to sing
Devil's tail or
angel's wing
Tho on The Way
there is no light
Sometimes hearing's

OUR ONLY SIGHT.

Where the river abandons herself to the creek
and the mudbank is cratered with crabclaws
waits the old man.

He doesn't know his years
but his ears are a sonic gift
catching the tonal variations of tides
seemingly for eons
evolving with the mangrove map
into a flawless tracker
of how far the moon would recline
for ***** to be holed out
and what shoreline the water would touch
before the shrimps starlight driven
make a beeline for the net.

I encountered him once
in the absurdity of a time
when I was high
and he lowly crouching
was making art by the creek.

Who was the poet
I could never tell.

On quiet afternoons
When soft winds blow
When grass covers tombs
And delicate buds grow

When drooping branches shade
And birds make nest
Before sun's rays fade
And drowsy children rest

When long days close
And innocent babies sleep
Only one who's vigilant knows
When old willows weep

Now as the train bears west,
Its rhythm rocks the earth,
And from my Pullman berth
I stare into the night
While others take their rest.
Bridges of iron lace,
A suddenness of trees,
A lap of mountain mist
All cross my line of sight,
Then a bleak wasted place,
And a lake below my knees.
Full on my neck I feel
The straining at a curve;
My muscles move with steel,
I wake in every nerve.
I watch a beacon swing
From dark to blazing bright;
We thunder through ravines
And gullies washed with light.
Beyond the mountain pass
Mist deepens on the pane;
We rush into a rain
That rattles double glass.
Wheels shake the roadbed stone,
The pistons **** and shove,
I stay up half the night
To see the land I love.

Fluent in truancy
a juvenile
inadequacy.

So when she spoke in French to me,
'je m'appelle Fifi'
I didn't have a clue what she meant.

then with great intent
she said,
'je veux faire l'amour avec vous;
I still had no clue
so I went fishing instead.

I like to roll in thunder
Smoke lightning all night long
I like to drink dark whiskey
From a large hollow log
Mama just shook her head
That one's gonna be a dog

I like to shake those snakes and bones
Give me spades with five cards down
I ain't into living
But it sure beats underground
And I'll meet my maker
In the alley back around

I like mean hearted women
I like to make em squeal
They always come back for seconds
Saying "Is this guy for real"
But they find that I moved on
I like the smell of burning wheels

I like rolling in thunder
Drinking white lightning from a jar
Don't wait up for me baby
I'm aready gone too far

By bye !

P.S. - Don't you even think about calling .