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Traveler Nov 2020
$A song by a Canadian band$

When the dragons grow too mighty
To slay with pen or sword
I grow weary of the battle
And the storm I walk toward

When all around is madness
And there's no safe port in view
I long to turn my path homeward
To stop a while with you

When life becomes as barren
And as cold as winter skies
There's a beacon in the darkness
In a distant pair of eyes

In vain to search for honor
And in vain to search for truth
But these things can still be given
Your love has shown me proof




Poet/lyricist  Neil Elwood Peart
Traveler Tim
Adri Sep 2020
One of my earliest memories,
was that of watching western movies.
I craved that consistency
The intangible prospect of
the same storyline,
the same happy endings,
that existed universally within them:
Cowboy gets the girl,
they ride away.

I knew they were just that:  
Fictional.
I never believed
in the idea that one could have
a fairytale ending,
like that.
I never believed  
in having hope,
like that.  
Until I met him.  
  
I called him cowboy.
I was his, as he was mine.
Every week I knew he would be waiting.
Rushing around,
he was full of the life and energy
that I needed the most
in those darkest of times.  

We spent every day that we could
Together, inseparable.
Laughter,
muffled in each other’s arms.
Sitting together for hours
our only worry,
would be the passing of the distant trains.

Falling into such a routine
became my hope,
My own happy ending.
As the world changes seasons
all things beautiful,
inevitably change.

I could smell his breath from across the truck,
thick and stagnant.
The girl had been my friend.
I had trusted her,
trusted them both more than life itself.
“How could you do this to me?”

The courage to say it effortlessly fills me,
I feel it leave my mouth
like petals in the wind.
Stuttering over his words
rendered meaningless,
his adrenaline drunken eyes
search my soul to form an answer,
to such a simple question.

“Get out,” he says.
My mouth quivers
trying to process his enraged words
He repeats himself,  
“You heard me. Get out of the truck.”
With the opening of this final cage door
and the fresh smell of diesel
left standing in the air
serenaded by the squeal of his tires,
I was left standing alone.

I was free at last.
With the dark silhouette of his truck against the sunset,
growing smaller and more distant,
he was gone.
The cowboy rides away,
this time leaving the girl.
This is really, really difficult for me to talk about-much less publish it to the general public. If you're reading this, I forgive you. I hope you're doing okay, and I just want you to know that I'll never stop loving.
Alan Abstract Aug 2020
The final frontier is the produce aisle
Deli slicers becoming sharper the longer the wait
A silhouette of man walks in...
He keeps his cigarette case beside a miniature purple *****
His hat real low, a tacky star fruit badge, and a belt of attendance awards
Always first in line
Buzzer calling for ticket number nine
His hand slowly draws for his concealed nine
Hand to hand and eye to eye
"The regular, gimme my cut, gimme the rolls, gimme the cheese"
Plastic bag with the goods
A slick crawl out of the store
Pulls out his bag to inspect the rolls
"**** this is honey turkey!"
Simone Gabrielli Aug 2020
The gypsy hymns and railway trails
which you followed into the valley of your trials
Lady Luck brought you enough street child wisdom and thief given kindness
to turn the tracks around and the train whistle to wake me.
Desert saint of your weathered ways
with your thin wrists and moon gleaming lips
Hope to you was like a blinding sunrise, painful to acknowledge, yet sorely lacking without
Never could be without your Larkspur boquets and marigold wreaths
August heat heavy with the scent of cypress trees
Apollo of the dusty sea, flooded the cliffs with light like withering flames
born from boxcar visions and a desperate hunger for that windblown hallelujah we chased down the starlit trestles like missionaries. Summoned from our streetcar medallions, vagabond nymphs, rumbling through moth-eaten states and barren dusks, lazy moon gazing upon our dolorous times and wild days and all our rough and rowdy ways.
No need to heed the judgements of the stars.
With the arid land so wild and lonesome- we weave our own muse into the railway line- followed back to when you were my home, and the streets were the laurel crown of your vagrant fortune.
toward western hills
the last vestiges of light
sink as day draws down
Maggie Aug 2020
coyote calls make canyons quiver
stars sleep in ponderosa trees
dry your tears in the fire’s glow
wild is a pretty place to be
Billie Marie Jul 2020
I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I
me me me me me me me me me
you you you you you you

All of this seems so silly now.
Why are so much of the important things in this life not spoken?
Why do we choose and remember to forget our true reality for a shadow of our own light?
This that we have made is not better or even just as good.
Who is tired of the lie?
Souls lilt as flowers from poor soil and no sunlight.
We are drowning in thunderstorms of our own tears,
yet we keep drinking and drinking.
What else do we know?
How else were we taught to live?
Show me a reality I can sink into without losing my Self.
We are the ones we have been searching for.
Jessica Duru Jul 2020
Her smile,
that smile
Her beauty that yonder shines,
and her love which doth strengthens me
Like the wind blowing unceasingly
Across the White Eastern sea
Shall it forever be?
Oh,I wish...
If only wishes do come true

I feel the longing pile up
With each day that goes by,
Shall it ever pass?
Oh,I doubt
Love is really hard like they say

Everything seems so broken
Even from afar,
One could still see
Can it ever be fixed?
Oh,I know not...
Nor the royal empress herself
For the rust will forever go on...

Ciara
1-BROKEN
A Forever Rust
The poem centers on a man who loves his treasure so dear; A woman born with a fine, white skin like that of a newborn, and an exotic beauty which the beholder never seems to overlook. But then, the tragic wind came blowing in their path, seperating them, and leaving the poet personae broken and void. He fears he'll never be healed of the damage caused and doubts there will ever be an end to his aching pain.....
Thomas Harvey Jul 2020
It was a cold winters night
Right outside the town of Bridgestone
The place was silent except for the old saloon
A new face appeared just the other day, he spent most nights in there
Some gazed at the fanciness of his clothes
Other scorned at the six shooter on his hip
I talked with him a little, he told me he was moving on with life, searching for something new and bright
He only planned to be here for a few nights, wasn't looking to pick a bone
So I gathered supplies, scurried a horse, and made sure he was gone by next afternoon
The next day is when the platoon came looking for him, I told them, the man was headed just south of Rabbit's Hair
Little did they know the man was traveling north to Letterman's Grove
Let this be a lesson kid, I may not have a story to tell, but this rusty old six shooter and gold is a most generous tip.
blushing prince Jun 2020
de facto fabrication just after the fact
the king mackeral always
dealing the blade to the sword fish
in a hasty attempt at drawing blanks
all confusion no feeling
the cowboys from those western films would have hated you
you could never tell who the good guy was
there's no duality only extreme alienation
and the tenuous fabric that exists between
man and everything else
something is always measured by the difference
it has in relation to another
the charisma from the hero
turned out only to be a severe drinking problem
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