Ancient wounds ~ Comet wishes


Bleeding from these ancient wounds
Falling to the earth below
Mud red, blood red, softening the ground
My footprints ache in format patterns

So long the wounds, of age defined,
Dripping masses in the mist
Marked for life, while a beating heart
pumps eternal fluid fears

Watching as the puddles grow,
round at first and then obscure
Fading faster than the sun
on its westward trek of daylight shadows

Weak…I find my eyes they stare
off into the crowning moon
Beams of effervescent glow
shroud me in unknown pleasures

Rising above the crusted mounds
Light as any whispered breeze
Words now call in sweet caress
Melodies of past preferred ring

Lyrics sung to me and me alone
A language that my soul does speak
Piano keys in blended black and white
string together lasting impressions

Symphonies of a healing concerto
press upon my quivered skin
Scars now dance at the revival
and still my feet don’t find the floor

My hand is touched, fingers moved
Warmth embraces this awkward grip
as peace flows, smooth, soft, subtle
through my veins

The bleeding has ceased
Disappeared among comet wishes
and my heart, once silent, now sings
in harmony with her voice…and I dream

I love the city this time on a weekday,*
She says, looking around at the
Empty shadows between orange
Streetlights.

Her first business trip, only
Stockholm this time.
London later.
I carry her suitcase.

After kisses and goodbyes,
I head back to
Her empty place.
Could catch a few hours of

Sleep, but I know I won't.
That bed needs her in
It, to be justified as one.
I'll write instead.

I never feel as  
Alone as I am,
When
I do.

It was a good bonfire
Leaving the autumn pasture

Covered in light smoke
Like some medieval campsite

Knives sheathed; leaning on our
Newly whittled staffs

We spoke of fathers; how some
Keep on living long after their souls

Leave their bodies
Leaving their wives with less laughter

And life than they deserve
If we ever become bitter old men, he

Said, directly to my eyes,
We have to... we have to cut

Our women loose, before we pull
Them down with us

The wind changed, blowing smoke
And ashes through the trees

Point it out if it happens, I replied
We shook on it

A true semantic literary meaning
awakening to curate
my being
or throw away it all and question
the delivery of
the ics and isms
determining not by me but by the reader
what is true
like Montague
proposing a new system
I propose a meaningful regimen,
one where words are either felt
, make me halt and listen,
to what they truly meant.
Or they don't.

past, future,
is not now where I live,
I don't reflect,
or imagine it,
I live now.

The seconds woven into minutes
forge into hours pour into days
so quick the years add up
to our lifetimes
we saw as the horizon.
Just this second

Charming lass, the shark she did trust , was a nimble one,
softly nibbled the dead cells laid crusted on her heart
genial it was so she felt like closing her tired eyes a bit,
her bed, lukewarm water, ominously bobbed all the while.
A woeful clown, she dreamed, tried everything to make her laugh
with his pathetic pranks; a jellyfish wearing a  wedding dress
seeing this, smelled blood, tried to raise an  alarm.
The shark was the one responded, "Don't you wake her up"
the waves were lapping on the shore, then dense silence reigned,
as expected a sanguinary sunset it was,on water blood lay splattered.

Out beyond all that are seen and felt
Looking out for what maybe or could be
That never has been experienced before
The quiet imagery that’s been painted
Which traverses the line of conformity
Surrealism seems to take over
Decoding the new found reality

All worldly knowledge
is utterly useless
until One learns
how to apply it.

Wisdom
is not a concept;
it is a way of life:
philosophy.

I scroll down your pages,
Each line making me hungry for
The next.

Father Eagle, wings spanning
Across multiple decades
Of strong life lived.

How many poetlings have you
Hatched from the cold, solid
Shells of their insecurity?

How many hearts have you
Guided from the darker corners
Of creativity, and

Into the light of a broader sprecrum
Of impression and expression?
How many lives

May just have been saved by the
Firm foundations of the attitudes you
Gift us with?

Keep challenging us, uncle Joe.
Keep soaring above the landscapes
Of ink and paper, of fingers

Painting themselves through keyboards,  
On nights where sleep has to yield
To the force of inspiration,

And remember...
You will live forever in the hearts
You have touched.

Long after your work is done in  
This world you made more beautiful and
Meaningful to so many;  

Once you become one with the trees,
Flowers, fields and woods that you
Love; even making those

Landscapes with which we all must
Merge more wonderful with your
Own perpetual grace,

You will be thought of. Spoken of,
Written of, reminisced about.
You tremendous man,

Friend, inspirator, teacher, creator.
May you live forever. A king cloathed
In ashes; humble.

A god, wearing Man, loving every
Strand of grass he graces with
His footprint.

You hold a thousand pens. You conduct
Legions of observers and transmitters.
You are the leaf you asked us to

Write about; at its most beautiful in
Autumn. Yellow. Dry enough to leave
Its tree and flutter through

It all. Unattached.
Unconcerned with
Winter.