"prospectors" poems
I gaze into the soul's windows
And what do I see
An abyss of muddy water
But if I look closer I can see
Specks of stolen sunlight
Streaks of the purest gold only
Prospectors can begin to imagine
By just looking I can tell what a
Gracious, warmhearted, good-natured
Person you are
That all the disingenuous individuals
Fathom
Just by looking
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 1:31 PM UTC
This world is but a graveyard
Of kings and kingdoms
Of philosophers and freemen
Of sacrilegious arrogance
For we live in a vast wasteland
Of prospectors and merchants
Only a few steps from oasis
Battling for a distant mirage
Humans are mere beasts
Like hyenas and lionesses
Fighting for supremacy
In this endless ephemerality
iamthe_avatar ©2016
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 6:45 AM UTC
Your golden frame which I once held so dear
Trickled between my fingers like the unlucky prospectors
Me, cursing the wind, never saw it coming
For days I could barely breath,
Ive been trying to bring myself to the arms of another
But every time I get close enough I’m reminded of you
A scent carried, or a crack in their smiles,
What a fever this is, this thing called love
Hopefully the right prescription will do the trick,
Enough liquor to drown an ocean,
and rewatching Barbarella for the 10th time
is just what the doctor ordered.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 10:55 PM UTC
On the St Lawrence
going upriver today
there may be gold in them hills
that I see lay before me
I will do me some panning and see
what pans out,
panning is what my life's
all been about
a nugget or two will do
no need to be needy or
any need to be greedy
just taking some time and
what I pan will be mine.
Waters are cold the higher
I get
shingles
slippery
wet.
I'm reflecting
on a man with a pan in his hand
a grizzled old face
a gold wedding band.
When I head back downstream
it'll be
to champagne, caviar, real coffee with cream
or is that just an old prospectors pipe dream?
I see diamonds that flash off the noonday Sun
as if
running atop of the water
I'm rich,
but I wish it was gold.
It's silent mostly
except for the water and birds
and the words I cuss out,
did I mention
that's what panning is all about.
I scramble through the brambles that
grow over my mind and try to find
a way out,
I guess panning is about that too,
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 1:39 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
Light reading for dark days and piping hot soup for the cold.
In a book of adventure
I cross raging rivers and battle the elements,
I read a quire or more pages as the storm rises and rages and the hero within me fights along with the hero without.
Prospects of gold,
prospectors of old have such wonderful stories to tell.
Every toll of the bell,
one more tale casts a spell and I'm there on the high seas as quick as you please.
But the westerns are the best ones,
Billy and Jesse,
Wyatt and Doc
the Daltons on the
Skimmerhorn all wait to be
reborn
on the pages
I read.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
Winding roads
The table, light catches a singular drop of
the blush on the carpet which doesn’t respond,
no more than a road would do to a street light.
Asphalt is grey at night, not black, full of spilt ale it felt adventurous,
curled itself up and splashed into the landscape where roads had never
before dared to a thread.
How happy they were animals and tractors until they discovered
the road ended by a river,
too deep to cross in winters and too stony for sore hooves in summers.
This problem was overcome when someone found a nugget of gold
and the landscape was full of prospectors who survived, by eating
their mules slowly.
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 5:43 AM UTC