The Pathkeeper.

O brother,
Feel free to stand, alone,

By the door,

Of the broken boulevard,

This day, slips neath fingers,

Sore with sunshine, 

And sleepless windows;

Velvet curtains, falling low.

O brother, 

Look around, the world is tending,

Stitching humor,

In all lives,

So take these children, peeking naked,

Out the courtyard,

Into open, like bluejays;

Harping heaven.

O brother,

Show them the halls, of our fathers,

Fading slowly, 

On the walls, threaded stories,

Like a fresco, freshly painted;

With old snow.

O brother, 

Let them wonder, and beware,

Of all the things that seems to be as the things they seem to be,

Treading softly, through the tar,

Shorter steps to travel far.

O brother,

Hold them dear,

Teach them dreaming, and to live,

Not as postcard, but a paper,

Forever speaking words that ought to be whispered out aloud,

In every ear, at all doors,

Beneath all streetlights,

Under all floors.

O brother,

When all is done,

And you waver, old and tired,

White eyed with rust,

Search your pocket, feel the key,

Take a step back,

Set yourself free.

It Happened Long Ago.

Once upon a time,

The jewelled sky was bare,

Like a blank canvas painted white,

And men felt hollow,

Staring at it long.

The poets could neither mourn,

Nor compose a simple song,

For the lovers sat cold of desire,

With no moon to set afire,

Their paths through thorns of pain,

And their lives with loss and gain.

The philosophers slept through night,

With nothing out and in sight,

And scribbled dry till days,

Wordy chains of worldly ways.

The sea too was at loss,

Yearning to turn and toss,

And speak of deeper things,

With the sand which silence sings.

Then thus one day it began,

And the stars started to rain,

From a sky farther above,

Without a why and how.

Some fell like wisps of dream,

Some whistling and some with scream,

Others halted with a tiny wink,

And glared without a blink.

Lastly the moon arrived,

He misjudged the depth and dived,

To finish as first in race,

But falling flat on his face.

And that is why dear friends,

The Moon hides to unearthly ends,

Lapsing shade by shade,

Nursing his cloud filled head.

For he forgets but remembers too,

That everyone gets their due,

That the dark is devoid of light,

That their is no scene without a sight.

The Recurring Ballad of Love

He moved to stand in line,

With a leaking pitcher of wine,

Eyeing the moonlit faces,

And the wind blown raven tresses,

Humming a broken song,

Dancing all along,

Bare of rhyme and reason,

To draw the lips of season,

A gift of flowered petal,

With a pinch of salt and metal,

And break the sun tipped veil,

The nectar of daffodil,

On the tip of gasping ocean,

All an echo of one motion,

Till the time such thunder still,

And glistening bruises heal,

To bind the aches again,

With arrows of guilty rain,

And feed the fallen dew,

An act that ends anew.

The Rain

He wavered, 

A carved hand brushing against dry, split lips,

Parched beyond measure, he blinked up at the folding sky,

Lifeless eyes awaiting a promise,

Which tiptoed eventually,

Like needles mocking glass,

Darkening the ground with it’s whisper,

So that the man could hear,

And find solace in the silence,

Of new seed breaking ground,

Old rivers running anew,

Dying breaths finding​ again,

Moments of living few.