The Prodigal

Yeah, I remember that day, the day I turned and walked away;
And did I even say goodbye or just fly out into the unknown?
Yeah, it was great for awhile, but I had no mate; I was alone
And eventually chilled to the bone, just like dead cold stone;
Did I hear you calling me back from falling into my own pit?
Ah! but I refused to listen, confused by my own damn idea
Of some great panacea that only proved to be a real sick kick!
But you never took your eyes off of me; you could always see,
And you kept calling while I was curled in the corner balling;
So now will this prodigal return or continue to burn inside
Of himself, where he’s pressed to abide? But you do not chide;
Sweetly, softly, your voice neatly flows in the cool breeze…
It’s been so long since I’ve known what it means to belong,
To be held in your arms, protected from all harms and alarms;
But will I wait at your gate or enter your chamber so great?
Will I, the prodigal, come home to you?
Ah! you knew … you knew, didn’t you?


Note: Previously published in April 2016, now republished for the reading enjoyment of new followers. Blessings to one and all!

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To the Edge of the Cosmos and Beyond

Can’t you see the stars falling? Can’t you hear the angels calling?
Absolutely enthralling to be at the edge of the Cosmos, to touch
The universal hedge; to go beyond, so near the end, my friend.
And we can dance in the sun, party spun, and never be burned
Nor ever turned away from the cacophony of celestial symphony,
With comets playing drums on the moon; too soon to cry or die!
The party’s just begun … at the edge of the Cosmos and beyond.

Can’t you hear the clouds hissing?  And see the dæmons pissing?
And what a wonderful world, indeed; hurled through space and time,
And we ain’t got a dime for the boreal jukebox, auroral machine
Making music; an oral reminder to the asteroids not to quarrel,
And we get to dance, you know! And prance on moonlight beams,
And streams of sunshine, while we dream all our dreams — cream
Of active imaginations that never grew up, but forever grew out…

To the edge of the Cosmos and beyond…


Note: This light hearted, somewhat humorous poem was first published in December 2015, now being republished for (hopefully) the enjoyment of many new reader-followers. Blessings to one and all!

There is a Land (Recast)

As brook-water swims gently over rocks worn smooth by time, and gentle breeze serenades the myriad variety of trees of ancient roots,  I lay me down on the side of lush green hillock and dream. . . I dream in this paradisiacal land in which there is no need or greed, and where generous hands gladly the hungry feed.

In this land, bands of farmers sow their seed here and there in rich, rolling fields, where yields are an hundred-fold in sun-wheat gold to be sold at fair price in quaint open markets, where people gladly meet and greet one another in contagious smiles with genuine, good-natured laughter in converse as free-flowing as the stream by which I lie.

Here in this land children walk hand-in-hand — there to play, here to stay for fun begun — and there is no fear, no want, no alarm or taunt; where folks are fair and never dare to tear apart what love has profoundly bound heart to heart, and where above angels astound in celestial sound for those here below where charity flows atop and below. 

In this land to which I retreat, the nymphs sing, too, and dance and prance, and sprits delight in the night brightly-lit, especially when the soft and soothing rains pass to quench the thirst of mother earth. And here, too, is where I meet you, my fairest soul companion and lover, where never one word need be spoken in token to our communion. And I rest and say, ‘Yes, there is a land … there is such a land.’


Note: Based on my poem, “There is a Land,” published in August 2015

Unearthed, Rebirthed

I was wandering in the wasteland, but then the wind whispered your Name;
My heavy soul blistered and dried by scorching shame.
Desert sands littered with regrets and gambling debts with the devil,
Mind pierced by doubting arrows forged in insecurity’s anvil.
Then rugged Shepherd came to find the lost and tempest tossed,
Brown crusted blood around deep cuts of love and happiness lost.
Illusions of despair, confusion of mind, and profusion of lies disappeared.
The air I breathed, the music I heard, and the truth no more smeared.
No more lost, but found, and bound for peace in new lease on life.

Note: I have been extremely privileged and honored to collaborate on this poignant, faith-filled poem with the very talented Dajena Mason of Moonskittles! The work was joyous and most rewarding, and I do hope that you, my readers, both enjoy this piece and are blessed by it!

Dark At Night; Dangerous Without Light

Oh how the Evil One can appear as an angel of light, indeed, and how so very attractive the promises made! In my mytho-poetic series, this was my second encounter with wickedly alluring Bast. And would I give myself up to her death? This piece is an altogether dark beginning of an unsettling episode in my mythic journey. If you have not before, please enjoy now. (Also, this represents a continuation of my exploration into poetic narrative; not to everyone’s taste, to be sure, but poets do experiment!)

moon1“It’s dark at night and dangerous without light,” she said, while holding candle by bejeweled, golden handle. “Vandals run as wild here as desert beasts… You are alone?” She was an altogether radiant maiden, fragrant with exotic oils and incense, and made no pretense of threat. “You should get up and come; you’re only some way from water and better rest in nest of greenery and flowers, neath protective bowers.”

Yes, of course I’ll follow. Why lie here so hollow in desert sand, waiting to be killed by wandering band? And so I struggled to my feet in complete determination to go where she led to be fed from clear, cool watering hole, though tottering on weak legs; nevertheless, in such state as this, whose soul would not beg to go on? So I approached her; she reproached me not, but smiled and beguiled my heart.

The candle? Now where? No where, but how? Still the flame with which she came … No, more expansive, impressive … even growing more massive. Wonder overtook me and shook me. Moving, flaming ball, practically brewing in her hand … changing colours ranging the artist’s palette. What mystic talent does this one possess? Her smile only widened but seemed all the more kindly, so I blindly tread forward toward this sprite of the night.

With every step the flame began to elongate more and more into some kind of straight slate. She could see my confusion, but remained sedate, content to await my arrival. But for what? To help or end my survival? All began to take more shape and I could not escape noticing that fire now burned underneath what looked like funeral pyre… Funeral pyre! I suddenly looked straight into the wickedly beautiful eyes of Bast, who’d cast her spell once again without warning bell.

“No wait! I throw out no bait,” she said in near desperation, as in exasperation I’d started to turn away. “Come no closer, then, but stay where you are; stand away thus far, but hear what I have to say… Stay.” I looked at her again — foolish sin — and she appeared differently, intently gently. Innocent yet magnificent. Calm. Herself numinous balm for all my wounds, hurts and pains and strains. “Don’t go away. Stay.” And so I did.

She looked sad, but under glow of bright light of the moon, not at all bad. Neither was she mad, but upon my stopping and turning back toward her, just a bit glad … mournfully so, but not scornfully as she had been when we’d met before and she’d set about to emasculate me! Had she changed? Perhaps she has a story, too, so why should I worry to hear her tale? Can I not bear as much, or shall I so utterly fail as a man?

“I was thrown out by my mother; blown out by God to live forever upon sod of earth,” Bast began as if in answer to my thought … but what had I just bought? “I am wicked, twisted, afflicted, and unacquitted. Restricted here … convicted of crimes I never committed, I admit I’ve become addicted… Oh! But hear me, dear one! Let some other sun shine in your heart! Give me mercy’s part, and let our relationship begin again without stain of past nor strain of lies!”

I began stepping forward toward her again. But what of funeral pyre? Is she still the same liar? Will she set me to the fire? Desert wind blew threw and somehow I knew … but I came well within reach of arm and potential harm, yet strangely with no alarm. She changed, I could clearly see; wrapped herself around me, bound me. I made not a sound. Nothing of this seemed to confound. “You have only to pass through the fire as if in a chasse.”

But pyres are for funeral fires, I thought to myself, though I’d already brought doom upon myself. I didn’t care; to escape the DarkWomangloom of this world was enough for me to assume any change would be fresh breath, even death. How to pass through, though, when lying down and dying is what’s called for here? Bast laughed, but not half as cruelly as she could, and coolly explained, “I was speaking metaphorically, but not horribly, my love; certainly not with austerity or in vulgarity.”

Cold. Cold in her hold. Breath. Her breath smelled of death.

“Only lie down and drown yourself in the flames, and do not blame yourself for so doing… You’re going to be mine.”

.

.

Timid

Not even the night can hide the fright;
Like light it only illumines the blight,
Keeping in heart’s sight the dæmons
Who haunt and taunt beleaguered soul
Too eager to fleece for meagre peace
Of mind of the kind not so hard to find;
It’s a blow-away show, sham serenity,
Gross obscenity of misplaced identity
As they whisper in your ear only fear
And real peace is near if you can hear
One calling to keep you from falling
So low from another blow to the heart,
But you only start to take the part
Of suppliant making pure covenant
With unbounded Life… You are…

Timid

Write

From your crying and weeping and all your silent keeping,
From your joy and laughter and thereafter miles of smiles,
From your lashing and thrashing and still-soul crashing,
From your trials, stockpiles of pain, and bile in your throat,
From your hopes and dreams and all your sky-high dreams,
From your strength and weakness, your pride and meekness…
Write.

If you are a writer … then write!