It is nightly, I shift from person to sleeping archaeologist, as I shut my eyes and fall into you.
And it is nightly I set out to decode the great hieroglyphics of your sky, etched out by extraterrestrials or maybe the great ancient spirits, who try to relay simple answers to heavy thoughts.
It is is evident to see, after my nightly research, that you are simply the dancer's ribbon, and the beings yet to be written, the ghouls in the attic, and the poet's poem, the union of electricity and circumstance colliding to put men in their place.
And as I fall deeper into the excavation of my slumber, I hear your whispers dancing through my sheets, saying: yield to me when we one day meet, not like the lunatic soldier, but like the silken lover who is reliably there upon your awake.
Note the fine flowing plain lands One where peace and order reigns Residence to historic cultural affluence That chaos admired from afar with pains Homing the abiding partisan patriots Entrenched in now ravenous blood hovers Rustlers, insurgents effected their domains Notorious bandits we once heard in fables.
Lives lost cruelly to obdurated elements Imprinting images of guns and deaths Voices raised; are our leaders ritualists? Establishing innocent crime-made orphans Spreading evils, afflictions and destructions.
Many a religious shrines turned death traps And markets, farms; ransacking poor villages That barely know governance and her benefits Turned into flowing river of blood and tears Emptying plangent hearts to quixotic elites Rich in thoughts; gliding us to precipice.
O'er the Causway road To the lands of the giants We smile as the Atlantic roars below The path is green, our hearts says go
Past the rope bridge we sidle on The skerries frighten us with their brawn Careful o' oncomers Breath in, they're vaughn
The architect's house Provides little shelter The harbour fights The seaweed felters
Near the hill, the Scots and Rathlin anew No time to stop, no time for a brew The waters rage No traffic, no queue
We reach the beach 'n cross the stream The weather draws in The water's sea beam
Back home via Bushmills The Inn is a stop Guinness and mussels The head, what a top
On reflection we drop our pace For this happy journey is not but a race What a joy those places are for me What a joy for you to see
The beautiful causeway coast road from Portrush to Ballycastle in Northern Ireland. Home to the Giants Causway, Bushmills whisky, Rathlin island a view of Scotland .'Vaughn meaning youth, felters is the German for gather or mat".
It’s as bright as hell my eyes are squinting Due-east the sun is rising The shining snow welcomes a break from days of overcast Banshee and I aimlessly walk across the frozen lake to avoid the traffic of the winding slippery busy roads Dead critters feathers and fur cars and trucks slip and swerve Ice fishers on the horizon year rounders in summer cottages Far and few people but hardly alone So I sit on this ice and write this poem ...............
So you think my storm is done at last? Just watch and wait till summers end. When, with a quiet rumble I return. As a single jar of lightning left. To speak the words of thankfulness. And to spark one more glorious storm to pass.
Nothing lasts forever. But for one more year. I'm just a notherner bringing one final southern storm to pass. God give me the strength and focus to do my best.