Something I wrote a while ago but have never gotten around to again...
Crows
Alone on a clock tower stood a fine little crow scanning the ground below him, where a little stream flowed off of the main tributary. He was watching and listening with his head cocked, waiting for the signal. The tower on which he stood, a black metal framework with a clock on each of the four sides, chimed the midnight hour. A sudden caw, caw of another crow made him cock his head in the other direction. This he knew was not the signal, and was yet another sign of delay. So he closed his eyes and hunkered down, head into wings. The wind ruffled his feathers a bit so he shook them out and shifted his position. He was thinking of the last council, all of the bickering that had occurred. Many had left then, off to the high mountain pines, bah! Let them go and good riddance! That day had been oppressive, the seasons had been shifting from summer to fall. The air dusty here and there from the crackling dryness and the mischievous whirlwinds. The clouds up above were foreboding, gathering all of the moisture into their greedy depths, giving the earth an eerie incandescent glow. The leaves had been drifting on the ground aimlessly, like they were driven along by silent ghosts, held aloft by the spirits. That day, she had walked past. The crows, too numerous to count, all standing around in groups of varying sizes, were pecking at the ground and hopping around to jockey for position. He had looked into her eyes. She knew, he felt she must have been ashamed at their bickering, but had been too polite to reproach them. Instead she gazed at the dancing leaves and grabbed for her father’s hand. He lifted her up and she skipped along, glanced back at the crows as she passed.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
A Different Kind of War - Circa 1995
The heat in the night was ruthless,
unforgiving.
As I felt the heavy tanks thundering across the land
I thought of how this bloody shed of life is to our mothers
who have made this miracle of life.
The war is not of nations and guns
but of hearts and souls.
The mothers tender heart breaks with each of her dying children,
she weeps a million tears until her heart is hard,
solid
and can weep no more.
unforgiving.
As I felt the heavy tanks thundering across the land
I thought of how this bloody shed of life is to our mothers
who have made this miracle of life.
The war is not of nations and guns
but of hearts and souls.
The mothers tender heart breaks with each of her dying children,
she weeps a million tears until her heart is hard,
solid
and can weep no more.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Irony
Do you know what I'm guilty of?
Irony
Ha
Bitter Irony
and why?
Because of the cycle...
snatched from youth
to raise youth
to give it all...
though young still
to be considered old
and why?
Because my young are old
and I
I
am ironic
Irony
Ha
Bitter Irony
and why?
Because of the cycle...
snatched from youth
to raise youth
to give it all...
though young still
to be considered old
and why?
Because my young are old
and I
I
am ironic
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Some generally un-profound thoughts...
Interesting, how life ebbs and flows
a swirling, maniacal mass of information
drifting into your fuzzy awareness
as you awaken each day
to do just about the same thing that you did as the day before,
yet somehow each day
there is just a little shift
a change so minute that the passage of such an event goes unoticed
and one day you awaken to realise
that all of the minute details
are the essence of life
you may curse yourself for having let it all slip by
or
you may live in a nostalgic awareness of a life well lived
you may not even notice at all
until it's over
a swirling, maniacal mass of information
drifting into your fuzzy awareness
as you awaken each day
to do just about the same thing that you did as the day before,
yet somehow each day
there is just a little shift
a change so minute that the passage of such an event goes unoticed
and one day you awaken to realise
that all of the minute details
are the essence of life
you may curse yourself for having let it all slip by
or
you may live in a nostalgic awareness of a life well lived
you may not even notice at all
until it's over
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Observations
Are they aware?
Can you convey what you've gone through to the clambering world, a world whose image of perfection is that of beautiful shells?
A shell, empty, devoid of life
Do they care that you have battled demons?
Do they know that behind your eyes you are observing, aware?
Aware of the fragrances, lilacs and pine,
aware of the birds that take flight as you walk.
The mourning dove sighs, alone in the farthest branches of the sturdy pine, calling out a song, hoping that it will reach another heart.
Her heart is touched, it responds to that sound...
The sound of one mourning for another to understand, that you are a rock in the river as the water rushes past, that you stay holding your place against the tide, that the wind is your friend because it holds you as you walk.
and you walk towards eternity...
Can you convey what you've gone through to the clambering world, a world whose image of perfection is that of beautiful shells?
A shell, empty, devoid of life
Do they care that you have battled demons?
Do they know that behind your eyes you are observing, aware?
Aware of the fragrances, lilacs and pine,
aware of the birds that take flight as you walk.
The mourning dove sighs, alone in the farthest branches of the sturdy pine, calling out a song, hoping that it will reach another heart.
Her heart is touched, it responds to that sound...
The sound of one mourning for another to understand, that you are a rock in the river as the water rushes past, that you stay holding your place against the tide, that the wind is your friend because it holds you as you walk.
and you walk towards eternity...
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
hunger draft
(This was inspired by Charles Dickens "A Tale of Two Cities)
She was fair, had a certain air, walked every where, strove to care,
yet the hunger lay in the streets, yes the hunger lay in the streets.
New faces, new places, they travel each day, searching for redemption, revival, anything.
They have left the land of no hope, for the American dream so fair, a sure thing you bet, they have left, they have left with a hope and a dare.
yet the hunger lay in the streets, yes the hunger lay in the streets.
Onward citizens, onward, search for the elusive medal, nugget, hope, hope!
Faces of gaunt children, hair receding hope retreating. Down at the bank, down at the store, there is hunger.
hunger in the streets, yes the hunger that lay in the streets.
Then a cry, faint in its beginning faint who would have guessed the ignominy that they suffer, as their hopes fail them. Stark reality, freedoms tossed as they do what they must to survive.
Ho then congressman! Ho then tax man! We have no bread to tax, take pity!
They lay, corpses in their chairs, their lives have ceased as they stare out the window, glossy eyed.
Who will give them breath again? Breath, sigh, their children cry,
On you we rely!
Yet words and tears fall on deaf ears, silent fears, wasted years.
Yearning rising, yearning boom, fought for and paid on the backs of laborers, searching, searching for newer and better.
Onward upward bless this house. Stretch forth and cry, enemies of my heart!
I will fight for the freedom of singing in the streets.
Many generations have passed, they knew and took for granted upward progression.
Ignominy they thought could never last, all deserve 15 min. of fame, so they say.
Nameless faceless masses stand
crying hallelujah let us live!
But
How do you carry forward the waters of life, when it is slowly leaking away? Your shelter was built, your life was planned, yet now you have no place to stay.
You wander in hunger, for heaven to send, redemption for what you have done, your fears, your tears and all of the years, you have worked and you've bled on the throne.
The throne of deception, the throne of desire you added more to it and your hopes they rose higher. So you worked and you planned and all of your dreams, they were dashed in the sand on the streets,
where hunger lay in wait, yes the hunger lay there.
Hearts have stilled with the news,
In the streets there is a hunger, a preponderance of insanity as lies are told and swallowed, there is nothing to fear.
No one has listened, who knows what the silence means yet it lingers.
A presence is felt the grim reaper himself, Charon awaits, there is hunger in the streets it is there.
With each stone that falls from the foundation, unheeded, each step in the sand an illusion. Each stone that falls from the walls as you walk down the streets of desertion. Your grasping for something, grasping, grasping...
and the children they cry in the streets, yes their children they cry in the streets.
She was fair, had a certain air, walked every where, strove to care,
yet the hunger lay in the streets, yes the hunger lay in the streets.
New faces, new places, they travel each day, searching for redemption, revival, anything.
They have left the land of no hope, for the American dream so fair, a sure thing you bet, they have left, they have left with a hope and a dare.
yet the hunger lay in the streets, yes the hunger lay in the streets.
Onward citizens, onward, search for the elusive medal, nugget, hope, hope!
Faces of gaunt children, hair receding hope retreating. Down at the bank, down at the store, there is hunger.
hunger in the streets, yes the hunger that lay in the streets.
Then a cry, faint in its beginning faint who would have guessed the ignominy that they suffer, as their hopes fail them. Stark reality, freedoms tossed as they do what they must to survive.
Ho then congressman! Ho then tax man! We have no bread to tax, take pity!
They lay, corpses in their chairs, their lives have ceased as they stare out the window, glossy eyed.
Who will give them breath again? Breath, sigh, their children cry,
On you we rely!
Yet words and tears fall on deaf ears, silent fears, wasted years.
Yearning rising, yearning boom, fought for and paid on the backs of laborers, searching, searching for newer and better.
Onward upward bless this house. Stretch forth and cry, enemies of my heart!
I will fight for the freedom of singing in the streets.
Many generations have passed, they knew and took for granted upward progression.
Ignominy they thought could never last, all deserve 15 min. of fame, so they say.
Nameless faceless masses stand
crying hallelujah let us live!
But
How do you carry forward the waters of life, when it is slowly leaking away? Your shelter was built, your life was planned, yet now you have no place to stay.
You wander in hunger, for heaven to send, redemption for what you have done, your fears, your tears and all of the years, you have worked and you've bled on the throne.
The throne of deception, the throne of desire you added more to it and your hopes they rose higher. So you worked and you planned and all of your dreams, they were dashed in the sand on the streets,
where hunger lay in wait, yes the hunger lay there.
Hearts have stilled with the news,
In the streets there is a hunger, a preponderance of insanity as lies are told and swallowed, there is nothing to fear.
No one has listened, who knows what the silence means yet it lingers.
A presence is felt the grim reaper himself, Charon awaits, there is hunger in the streets it is there.
With each stone that falls from the foundation, unheeded, each step in the sand an illusion. Each stone that falls from the walls as you walk down the streets of desertion. Your grasping for something, grasping, grasping...
and the children they cry in the streets, yes their children they cry in the streets.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Cowboy Camelot
*One of my favorite pieces, my Great Grandpa was a "Cow Puncher" which I suppose meant that he broke in horses. Plus my Uncle Mo is a dyed in the wool cow boy, owns a cafe up the hill from here with his girlfriend.
There is a once upon a time, that exists in my heart.
I can see the daylight breaking over the horizon, crackling morning campfires, and blue hazy smoke curling lazily in the air.
Morning in a Cowboy's Camelot
Biscuits and bacon eaten with appreciation while sitting round the campfire balancing plates on knees.
Listening to the dawn chorus of the birds. How do's and mornin's spoken with drawling tongue and twinkling eye, amusement about life in general.
Cowboys with their leather and beads, their feathers and weaves, a tip of the hat, a bit of a tease.
I can smell oiled leather and smoke in the western store. Hear boots on the wooden floors, bells tinkling on swinging doors.
See the barrels and bins full of horseshoes and pins. Rough hemp rope curled on the ground, sand and dust all around. Saddles and deer heads hanging, country music playing.
A cowboys haven
There is still something within me that recalls, swirling fires in the dessert, dusty tumble weeds over a hot trail, sand and sage, dry dessert air, nickering horses, snakes rustling through tall grasses, the coursing of streams down high mountain passes.
Out on the trail with the cowboy
Whisky and whiskers, old spice and pomade, reclining against a log as melancholy chords are strummed, the pick of the banjo, harmonicas drone, chaps and spurs golden in the firelight, comfortable as the red and azure blues fade from the sky in the west.
The cowboys evening salute to the stars
There is a once upon a time, that exists in my heart.
I can see the daylight breaking over the horizon, crackling morning campfires, and blue hazy smoke curling lazily in the air.
Morning in a Cowboy's Camelot
Biscuits and bacon eaten with appreciation while sitting round the campfire balancing plates on knees.
Listening to the dawn chorus of the birds. How do's and mornin's spoken with drawling tongue and twinkling eye, amusement about life in general.
Cowboys with their leather and beads, their feathers and weaves, a tip of the hat, a bit of a tease.
I can smell oiled leather and smoke in the western store. Hear boots on the wooden floors, bells tinkling on swinging doors.
See the barrels and bins full of horseshoes and pins. Rough hemp rope curled on the ground, sand and dust all around. Saddles and deer heads hanging, country music playing.
A cowboys haven
There is still something within me that recalls, swirling fires in the dessert, dusty tumble weeds over a hot trail, sand and sage, dry dessert air, nickering horses, snakes rustling through tall grasses, the coursing of streams down high mountain passes.
Out on the trail with the cowboy
Whisky and whiskers, old spice and pomade, reclining against a log as melancholy chords are strummed, the pick of the banjo, harmonicas drone, chaps and spurs golden in the firelight, comfortable as the red and azure blues fade from the sky in the west.
The cowboys evening salute to the stars
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