Images of self

created in unknown regions of my mind,

areas I do not like to visit,

thoughts and emotions,

wild and uncontrolled,

seem to be scars on my soul,

which I do not understand.

r
 

regions unknown

melted and marred,

the landscape, unrecognizable,

a painting of regions on the way to hell,

or visions of the pathway to heaven,

the land doesn't seem to be of this earth,

nor do the specters lurking in the painting,

marred and melted.

,

 

Time Sentinels

rocks.

survivors from the past,

observe the passing of time,

and all the changes,

reminding us,

we are only here for a short time,

not survivors,

but prisoners of our time,

unable to observe the changes in time.

 

The Count

 the walker before me blocks me from my past, 

run with the wind,

I will not,

ever again, 

or walk without pain,

writing now difficult,

instead my mind contemplating each and every possible step,

I may possibly take,

evidently afraid of the pain,

it sits, continuously counting steps,

endlessly, .  . .Sesame Street gone wrong,

I stagger up and grab the walker,

I concentrate on not vocalizing the count in my mind,

back stabbing bastard,

count to yourself,

you son of a bitch,

I will focus on the journey,

not the steps,

even if only to relieve myself,

the journey important, not the count,

outside, desperate to see sky,

a girl on the sidewalk,

college aged, walks on by,

my mind no longer notices how she dresses,

or her body type,

it only counts her fucking steps,

as she walks on by,

seeing me, a smile full of pity,

she starts across the street, to the other side,

nearing the border of my universe.

Christmas Songs

 why the singing of those Christmas songs ?

isn't it about priorities ?

Christmas time, when lives examined,

and ideals professed,

love and community promoted,

days of childhood,

remembered and honored,

days of yore,

come to the foreground of the mind,

Christmas, a time for the deaf to hear,

when sight given to the blind,

spiritual and physical,

life, in it's  essence, examined,

and explained,

voices can not help but be raised in song.

Winter

winter finally here,

sledding and ice skating,

in the clear cold day,

a day full of memories.

 

walking

walking the park,

with thoughts on my mind,

wondering where the world I have known has gone,

logic, 

and rational thought,

no longer assets,

but debits,

in this looking glass world.

 

Old

dreams of times forgotten,

memories seeming to belong to someone else,

old age .

a thief,

stealing both the present and the past,

a life lived, 

no longer your own.

 

No Road

the road home. gone,

the terrain difficult,

no trails seen,

the reality, I must find my way myself.

the same as everyone must do.

 

Bridges

darkness spreads across the world,

hope seems gone,

trust the path,

find the bridge,

we will make it to the other side.

 

War

hate creates hate,

until violence grows uncontrollably,

loathing, the sire of death,

and  war,

war, a tangle of webs,

not easy to escape,

while violence is bred,

and the destruction grows,

prayers for all trapped,

as God watches through His tears.

 

Colors

colors on the canvas,

blend and contrast,

creating a painting,

unique,

one of a kind.

 

Change of Seasons

leaves gone, as is the summer,

winter on its way,

thoughts of childhood,

snow covered hills,

and a warm fire by which to lay.

 

The Path

the path forward wearies the mind,

pain and conflict just ahead,

I take a breath,

and remember this will all end,

sooner or later,

the journey the important thing,

how I live,

keeping in mind,

always be thankful,

always be humble,

but battle for truth.

 

Dark

the world changing,

hope almost done,

but the ironic thing seems to be,

 this is the choice taken by world leaders,

far and wide,

ignorance grows as schools fail,

people suffer while money generated at unheard of rates,

people die daily as leaders talk of peace,

Alice, never had it so dark, in her wonderland,

but this no fairy tale,

this reality,

dank and dark. 

 

Flowers

hoping my transgression forgiven,

or at least,

understood,

flowers given,

a reminder of happier times.

 

akin to a dream,

the image, foggy and sorta gray,

Flat Top,

a mesa on the edge of the canyons,

just south of town,

seemed sacred and holy,

still in my dreams,

these past 6o years,

comforting,

a sense of home,

as my journey comes to an end.

 

Home

home,

the place the soul rests,

the body, one with the place,

no need of others,

this is where I belong,

this is home.

 

A Quiet Moment in Time

hills of sand, quiet,

the breeze whispering through the long prairie grass,

cattle graze in the afternoon sun,

the windmill pumping water from the ancient underground,

the world seems right,

so beautiful and pure,

an oasis, from the fallen world outside these hills,

beyond the fences of barbed wire,

and the vacant highways of rural Nebraska.

 

Gates (first published in Rope and Wire Journal-May 2012)

Grandpa and I would salt and cake,

he'd drive the pickup,

I'd get the gates,

my older brothers thought I a fool,

getting gate after gate,

nine in all,

but they didn't hear the stories Grandpa would tell,

or learn the secrets of doing good work well,

letting tools and nature,

give you a hand,

or understanding the farm,

and the lay of the land,

they only thought of the gates,

nine in all.

 

Days Forgotten

days forgotten,

when thoughts free,

and the heart happy,

children allowed to be children,

and adults acted like adults,

lazy summer days,

and cold winter nights,

both enjoyed by the town folk,

fishing and swimming in the river in the summer,

and ice skating on the pond by the river on winter nights,

the action now all on cellphones,

artificial and manufactured,

trapping billions in the web.

 

Road through the Ranch

The road through the ranch was only two ruts in the prairie grass,

gates and windmills the main sights to see,

weaving and winding through the hills of sand,

forced to find  routes,

avoiding the valleys and hills so high,

scaring deer out of thickets of wild pear,

and chokecherries,

checking fences and water levels in the stock tanks,

one of my favorite routes I have ever driven,

now only a memory.

 

Waters run

 

waters on the move,

running west to east,

traveling through hills of sand,

an oasis of trees and grass,

in this land of sun and sky.