The bark

The bark.

Dog beat.

Log seat.

Rotted beneath.

Knotted pines, like wreaths.

The heat.

The shade.

The leaves falling, like a parachute brigade.

Unsaved.

Land on carpets of moss.

Layers and layers on top of the rocks.

They say the snakes sleep to the song of the frogs.

Seated upon the logs.

Percussive noise from the barks of the dogs.

The bark.

Val

Left in shattered tatters.
Waiting to be picked up or to find some new deceitful interlude to temporarily escape into.
Barren are the todays leaving us with nothing in tomorrow's tomorrow or the day after.

Another soft breath has left this landscape and we are forced to sulk like the thirsty. Sapped of all energy, and those few tears that pour from the eyes to land upon parched lips with salt-riddled unwelcomeness are left to the wooden planks that we tread upon.

It has been the year of growth, of destruction and eventual renewal.

Cycle upon cycle, this is all perpetual...eternal.

Life is a mobius strip.

The sanctuary was silent. I turned to look for an ally, someone to share the burden that weighed heavy on my heart and mind.

To the left - no one

To the right - no one

The parting from this shore to the most travelled destination, should be a celebration.

It is rare that a life can be adorned with the generosity, kindness and patience like this one that today we sit and reflect upon.

Given my younger years, wide-eyed, unabashed and dreaming - an attentive ear.

Given my time now, humbled, quieted and grounded - a look of amusement.

Burned into the flesh of my third eye.

A relationship bears its impact when it is permanently removed from your environment. Many of us stop to wonder why we hadn't, we didn't and why not?

A spirit, a soul, so long as it stands on this plain...populates your aura, regardless of what distance is between you and it.

When it leaves this World. That's when the aura is left unpopulated by the soul's presence. It is up to the library of our memory to comfort, acquaint and refresh existence.

In this world, where there are so few to remember.

I will remember you.

...before he is sickened

...and it 's the acquanting that makes us associates.

Like leaves to the ground.

The differences of proxies and broker bets....the money is lost, but the dealer has won.

And then the question of who makes the deals has begun.

But a travesty.

The fortunes of her majesty and his presidency

are the expense of your earnings and residency.

So what if we all disappear?

and reappear in diseases and the forgotten sheets

of treatises.

A tortured pass at rememberance

Forgetfulness is our semblance.

Eclectic ever afters and apocalyptic good byes.

blamed on Sino-senselessness

and Mohammedan eyes.

And what of the leaves on the branch of the tree?

Left to the breeze from which they were seized.

Teased by the idea of being a seed.

Never delved into the depths of this earth.

To stretch upon its roots and spawn a son from its birth,

or daughter

and what of the holy water?

that is splashed upon our heads

or the crops that are grown to keep us from getting the poor fed?

Ethanol is alcohol. Brewed like brandy.

Money is not for you, but for them it is handy.

Swim in the abysmal. Addicted to this riddle. Played to the boss, first and second fiddle

Earth worn and cancer stricken.

World...

please save my son

before he's sickened.

Reckoning

All of me is uncertain.

As to...

Who you are.

Who you will be.

And who I am to guide you.

I am half the path.

A piece of the truth.

And left to you.

When I was only young,

And youth had no ego, nor temperament...

nor favour to ask.

I found you knocking on the door.

I know I will answer, but sometimes question why you would be at the door.

At the starting of the week, be it mine or yours. You will awaken to this turbulent flight of life that bears nothing more than dreams, contempt, martyrdom and appetizing tidbits of happiness.

You will be forced to question and qualify what it is you see and feel.

You will be forced to sift through the daily dealings of influence, the largest of which will be an all consuming media...

be it whatever media.

begging you to become it's passive observer.

daring you to not speak when you need to.

telling you to believe what it has made you see.

It will be troublesome. It will be heartbreaking. It will make you wonder what this is all about. Why we're all here and what good is to come of your action or inaction.

To think this will always be alright. To feel it will be just as fine. To be absrobed by it and lost in it...

And then it has become sin.

Immaculate you are not. Yet born of sin, you are neither.

Both leaves from a tree.

Sharing the soak of the storm,

Drying in the light of the sun.

Never apart but in space and time

I dedicate this to you, as I guess my way and leave branches and twigs to blaze my trail

Accept

Granite laced visions

Of Truculent Truth

Earthborn fissures

Of violent proof

The chemistry of all that is not.

And the Alchemy of all that is distraught.

A phalanx of trees,

Hedges for pawns.

Pedicured feet

on Manicured lawns.

Bury me between the river and trees.

I wish to poison the creek

with my own seed.

And lay the foundation more solid then stone.

And have my son document the road

on his own.

An occasional shiver

An expected glare

Live for all emotion

Accept what is there

From Daffodils to Dandelions

In but a slow and steady dirge.
Our sweet song of pity and lament.

Gather our hearts in stages and fragments
And pump forth the blood that is coagulated
And stagnant.

Be it time,
For sands, grains of rice and battery fueled arms only measure what eludes us

And how far we imminently remove ourselves from a moment.

If it weren't for the daffodils,
It would be the Dandelion that brings colour to the summer.

And in this summer, not a flower has been planted in this garden.

Her last march down the aisle bore her no matrimony nor communion,
But solemn prayer as her presence waxed and waned
Like the gibbous moons.

What is a tear, if it is not shed?
What is love, if a heart hasn't bled?


If it weren't for the daffodils,
Her coffin would be bare.

And to her grave...
bearing memorial

Stand the dandelions

for her care

These Patient Days of Spring

Lumbering willows

Swaying in windy weather

Yearning for the sun

Bury the swords and awaken the ploughshares.

For the flower bloom, has peeled back its crystal blanket. The one that had laid the grounds barren and left the meek to forage through the frost.

At a glance, it is the transitory trees of the deciduous variety that shed their elegance with Winter's admittance. They are after all the only species to cast away their covering and lay exposed to the cold. Only in the short warm months of our seasons, do we see them draped in their elegant robes.

The season has been humbly awaited.

These patient days of spring.