Tanka: Uprooted Mind
Rainy dusk arrives,
An evening of tremors come
to a brain not bound
by earthly structures.
Visited by dreamless lights,
and uprooted thoughts.
Stream of Consciousness: A Dark Day
An enlightened night brought dreams of dark days under the desert sun. Times do not come when called, and the thirst builds to an apex of desire. Ride the sand, the reaper instructs. And a dance is summoned; my feat fly to the inviable song. Spots jump in my eyes. A scream is called from parched lungs. Death.
Tanka: Tankas of Discord (or Birth of a Muse)
Light from the fire
of the golden apple seed
planted in ripe fields
on the flood plains fertilized
and fed from the river Styx.
Dancing with delirium,
Elysian fields soured,
Dreams of vile filth,
Deconstructions waking eye,
Sophia held by thick chains;
Born from the lotus,
and fathered by the logos,
she swam in waters
of the ethereal joy,
beached by creations left hand.
On the silver sands,
her spirit sings to the sky,
her being inspires,
born to give the world beauty,
born to give the world sorrow.
Tankas: Three Tankas of a Deserts Rage . . . #WesternWednesday
Rage filled pale gray eyes
and his hate brought destruction,
To the desert towns,
Each step on the trail grows sage,
’till the sun sets and life starts.
But in the empty
waists and nightmare visages
of the deep visions
lost in the stars of heaven,
falling into reborn souls . . .
The lost are now found;
belonging to forgotten
badlands of lost youth,
You are all remembered beings,
Joined by violence of the minds.
Tanka: Gray Eyes
Before pale gray eyes,
Stands the heart of the desert,
dust blown and barren,
but holding the hidden life,
in the shade of a small stone.
Poem: Melting
Screams from inside
and the ice melts
with the heat of terror,
and turmoil of the mind
bringing flashes and sparks
to the spinning world,
and lost thoughts.
A hidden wonder,
when the fire springs into vision,
the spirit lifts above,
then falls,
slamming the body in a fit,
and visions consume,
giving birth to the word,
and falling astral peaches.
To the world,
understanding lacks,
only to crush the heart,
but inspire the word,
given from the divine Sophia,
that light
of the divine.
#Haiku: Drifting . . . #WesternWednesday
On this great western Wednesday we start with a haiku, yes a western Haiku, get over it . . .
Drifting in the Sun
On dry lakes in high deserts,
The dust devils spin.
Another post soon: The Song of Ximena Aljibe
Tanka: Three Tanka of Forbidden Dreams Found
A Follow-up to: Three Tanka of Silent Sins
Forbidden dreams found,
Among the thunder of waves,
and the silent stars,
On a night that’s remembered
for the vices of the night.
How none remember,
but me, shining starlit eyes,
because none have seen,
the rebirth of joy and art,
In an old and lonely heart.
Fulfillment brings art,
Longing brings inspiration,
the drink brings chaos,
A theater dance Saturdays,
Eris, meet my mother Nyx.
Poem: This Devils Test (draft #1) . . . #WesternWednesday
This is a companion piece to the Poem, Six Bullets ’till Sundown.
I’m not 100% happy with the structer and flow of this one, but I’m tired and done for now. Enjoy
The dark man walked,
whistling melancholy tunes,
never talked,
looking for fortunes,
then in the wind cries, “Die!”
The desert was lonely with sage,
dust and windblown spires,
an improbable word of rage,
no ghost inspires,
sounded in the sky.
Colts set free,
pale eyes staring,
aching to spree,
and the heat blaring,
To the sight of emptiness.
He grinned,
and in the breeze,
on the lips of the hellish wind,
hands sought the ivory, itching to appease,
the lust in the lonesomeness.
The sky stretched blue,
with pillows of white,
and as the light grew,
so did the need to fight,
but the silence only stood on the sage spotted desert.
The dark man stands,
eyes in shadow,
hilts in hands,
feet in the meadow,
It came to hurt . . .
“Die! Son of a bitch!”
with silver knife,
and startled twitch,
and drops of red life,
fall slow.
Swinging with hungers rage,
his aged scalp gray,
dancing in the sage,
hunting to slay,
the dark man from below
Pale eyes held the motions,
skill sharpened his mind,
with calloused emotions,
waiting to repay in kind,
each slice of the knife.
Crimson splashed,
on the sagebrush,
the colors clashed
in his heated rush,
lusting for the dark mans life.
A moment came,
as he faced the west,
thunder without aim,
old man went to rest.
The dark man looked to the kill,
the kill with sights on the dealer,
“Son”, he said quiet and still,
“father”, spoke the dark revealer,
winning this devils test.
Away the dark man walked,
whistling melancholy tunes,
colts cocked,
heading to the deserts dunes,
Spirit of the desert sage.
Haiku: Tears
Tears long forgotten,
Dreams bring memories rebirth
On an autumn day.
Poem: Tanka: Whiskey . . . #WesternWednesday
Burning the parched throat,
eyes down to the golden drink,
regret speaks my heart,
for those left on trails behind,
hands given lead to the lost.
Haiku: Barren . . . #WesternWednesday
Sun dips in the dunes,
burning the high barren fields,
as I sit alone.
Haiku: Craving
Lust for the denied,
desiring murderers,
waiting for a thought.
Poem: Forget the Numbers (Part #3, draft #1) #westernwednesday
Time is short,
in the sunlit sky,
no hope for a dream,
looking high.
A western rumble,
to that my horse flew,
Me, the hanged man,
Delighting the devils crew.
But an easy death?
Denied that gift,
slow asphyxiation,
and the wind took a shift.
Through stars of suffocation,
Shots rang and bullets sang,
in my fading sight,
falling was the gang.
And though the sound of battle
brought a simple smile,
thoughts went to my wife,
lying in a pile.
The eyes close to see her beauty,
and join her company,
one wish only,
to avenge the villainy.
The rope snapped,
I fell,
the hate awakened,
to the litany of hell.
The bullets ended,
and sounds fade,
death has been dealt,
still a debt to be paid.
To the sound of walking feet,
came a creeping sleep,
despite the desire
to crumble and weep.
Despite the dead,
around the hanging tree,
a villain escaped,
to live and be free.
Poem: Tanka: Three Tankas of Iced Life
Thin tiny etchings
On a lake of mirrored glass
in the frozen hills,
Silver eyes stare at the scene,
Tears of ice, bound to skin.
A white horizon,
Unforgiving purity
lonely in a dream
By a lake of radiance
That reflects melancholy.
Motionless in time,
Eyes locked on frozen water,
Blind and cold she sits in
Eternal meditation,
Nirvana without a name.
Poem: Tanka: Three Tankas of Time Lost Now Gained
All I’ve ever learned,
Came from streets of desire,
And love lost to time,
The hard earned knowledge of
Mistakes of lost fulfillment.
The day has come to
bring that dream to life and
hope to the forefront;
Time of the hunter has come,
Dawn raised above the peach tree.
I’m only a man,
A road to disappointment,
Clock ticks to autumn,
Bringing the logos to life,
Taking words to the masses.
Poem: Forget the Numbers (Part #2, draft #1) #westernwednesday
Time is short,
and the sun is high,
opening my eyes,
heaving sigh.
Cracked earth,
with a lone dead tree,
the time near the rise of night,
to set the soul free.
Still rope,
my hands bound,
from a lone branch,
not a sound;
but the wind blew,
the rope swung,
the executioner in toothy grin,
destiny hung.
Laughter from beyond my perception,
from the branch dangled fate,
the hour stood at dusk,
eyes filled with hate.
The woman danced in my mind,
hope murdered in the street,
memories of a hand held,
delusions in the heat.
Put on the back of the beast,
Led to a rope,
A man whistles,
drained of hope.
Apathy empties thoughts,
dead loves waiting,
looking up, the first star,
thoughts are suffocating.
And with a tear for the departed,
hemp around the throat,
happiness about,
Executioner gives a cliche quote.
Laugh and a slap on the ass,
Beast bucks,
neck caught,
breath in flux.
No snap of the neck,
but a slow choking,
and a writhing panic,
and slowly asphyxiating,
Thunder in the skies,
fall to the cracked earth,
weakened limbs,
Breath giving birth.
Sounds of fire,
fills the sky,
night on high,
stranger in my eye.
Tanka: Autumn Day
Songs of lost lovers,
Sung along desert meadows,
Dreams last forever,
Until the the leaves of autumn,
Fall in a silent slumber.
Poem: Six Bullets ’till Sundown (Draft #2) #westernwednesday
Starting tonight and every Wednesday I shall now dub as Western Wednesdays. Every Wednesday I will post something with a western theme. If you want to join in the fun and use twitter, just post something western related with the hashtag #westernwednesday or #westwed.
To start off I present you with the second draft of Six Bullets ’till Sundown:
In a high desert town,
The Dark man walks,
black hat on crown,
while the stranger stalks,
Whistling an melancholy tune.
The dusk hangs low,
On the west facing street,
Dead winds blow,
With a parching heat,
On a solemn sixth day of June.
Then six stared knights,
Block the path of the damned,
The lonely man sights,
As he frees his hands,
A ragged smile is born on his face.
A star raised his brow,
Took three strides,
Presenting a bow,
To the desert he collides,
The dark man won the race.
A crash of thunder and sulfur clouds,
And a red stained sheath,
No sounds of weeping in the missing crowds,
A grim smile shows crooked teeth,
Hands steady as stone.
Night comes near,
The knights eyes done,
Dark man with no fear,
To five men stands one,
And he whistles his favorite tone.
The power of hell brings him,
The darkness longs to steal,
Mud caked hands lower his brim,
His colts bring the real,
And his song sunders spirit.
The five walk with just fear,
Towards the black silhouette,
One weeps an unseen tear,
Their silence bought with regret,
Bowell’s filled with grit.
The motions sting,
Fowl winds blow,
Hands spring,
Bullets sow,
On a solemn sixth day of June.
Crashes of thunder in a cloudless sky,
The haze settles on his east bound path,
The calm of the desert on high,
Only one man and wrath,
Whistling his favorite tune.
A Dark man walks,
On a dust blown street,
And now no stranger stalks,
But dead meat once standing on twelve feet,
Silhouette in the fiery dusk.
Into the night the grim stranger strides,
No starred knights to cross his path,
the silent tension of the cooling town subsides,
From six bullets of wrath,
And the rising scent of musk . . .
And a whistle.
Note: A follow up has been created: This Devils Test
Haiku: Thorns
Silent is the dream
Lost in the sleeping roses,
bleeding, pricked by thorns.
Haiku: Drowning
Down in waters dream,
drowning in lost emotion,
hand reaches at life.
Tanka: Three Tankas of Silent Sins
Silent nights bring dreams,
of natural springs and singing
nymphs of large dark eyes,
seeking your souls forbidden
hopes of a sinful romance.
Hands of desire,
hearts of dark lust that bring death,
a naked embrace
of the piercing thorns drawing
blood from wounded veins like knives.
The hunger of sight,
and of the sensations thirst,
the bodies hunger,
temptations rise for the fey,
surrender to the moment.
Poem: Six Bullets ’till Sundown (Draft)
I’m not too happy with the rhyming structure so I’m going to publish as a draft (fair warning). Meaning I may come back at a later date to rewrite.
In a high desert town,
A Dark man walks,
black hat on crown,
while the stranger stalks.
The duck hangs low,
On the west facing street,
Death winds blow,
With a parching heat.
Then six stared knights,
Block the path of the damned,
The lonely man sights,
As he frees his hands.
A star raised his brow,
Took three strides,
Taking a bow,
To the desert he collides.
A crash of thunder without clouds,
But a red rain sheath,
No sounds of weeping crowds,
A grim smile shows dirty teeth.
Night comes near,
The knights eyes done,
Dark man, no fear,
To five men stands one.
The power of hell brings him,
The darkness longs to steal,
Mud caked hands lower a brim,
But colts bring the real.
The five walk with fear,
Towards the black silhouette,
One weeps an unknown tear,
Silence bought with regret.
The motions sting,
Fowl winds blow,
Hands spring,
Bullets sow.
Crashes of thunder in a cloudless sky,
The haze settles on his east bound path,
The calm of the desert on high,
Only one man and wrath.
A Dark man walks,
On a dust blown street,
And no stranger stalks,
Now but dead meat.
Into the night the grim stranger strides,
No starred knights to cross his path,
The silent tension subsides,
Of the six bullets of wrath.
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