All Five's

Magnetic minute

reconnected to the time

of track, I am back.

Image credit by National Archives and Records Administration of William Duncan c. 1916-17 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

By a heir

On a full moon night
near the solstice,
there was no gentle way
to be honest
under the naturally blue light.

I have long said,
everything travels in waves,
like this; light, sound, heat, idea,
emotion, news and aromas.

It made me angry
to remember
standing there.
He said I should do it,
for the money, for some sense
of justice
I ought to
make an effort,
as if it were worth going
backward.

There is no gold in those hills
waiting for me,
He disagrees.

For now, I tell him
I am still too busy.
And he knows how cold it is already
and knows it is too cruel to drop more
on me.

I reminisce how
many moons ago
I dreamt myself right here,
and never needed to remember
how it all happened.

Honestly, there is nothing left there
of value
for me.
I know I will have to go
back there, as the only child, the only one
who will-
It will cost them
only a little peace
when all has been
said and nothing done.

You left part of you
exposed there and turning blue
waiting for you to finally go back
and bury the body
deep in the hills
like treasures of the past.

We finally agreed,
a wave of relief washed over us both
Not Now-
in due time
it will come needing me
and my cold-hearted honesty
in the full moonlight.



Painting by Ilya Repin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Follow the Trail

The long

   and wind-

ing road where

  a river runs

    through this Place.

      My nest-my shelter…

        A bough heavy with its

         Burden throwing weight

           under -fractured –arms-bends

          splitting branches and hairs.

         Shedding, peeling, bleeding

        New growth smooth raw

      and glowing in vibrant appearance

     of new buried in the piles, behind the

    Brook, between the pulpy sheets in the

    Pillared fortress of my dark wood. Followed

   by History, taunted under timber, mossy muffled

  movements like the pumas pads, stalking, following

 His instinct upwind of fragile deer quaking in the breeze.

Led innocently but not blind by the familial scent which

Rushes past as white noise……………

The rivers running away in daily rush,

  the commute of clear water swelling

   and surging. Overflows with dripping

    anticipation, a communion-yet lingering

      all ways, touching baptismal branches,

       alone with the alchemy

        tossed in the leafy mix, where lights

         refraction concentrates and showers,

          beaming and bemoaning,

           the straightforward path

             Toward the new season,

              rooted in reason,

               salt over the shoulder,

                tears condense.

                 No turning back!

                  Abandon All Pride!

                    Mists obscure all distinction

                     of form-that is confidence-

                      The kiss of order, standing up 

                       to reason gushing with fortitude

                         in the flow of perspiring possibility.

                          Down long halls lined in

                           mirrored repetition,  rhetorical echoes

                            only bounce; bouncing rhetoric in repetition

                              mirroring echoes  the eagle’s fading scream,

                               A crier over town, sad jays bicker greedily 

                                gathering, stealing and mocking in their way 

                                    out of the thicket of things. Wandering wearily,

                                      coming to corners where speckled rocks

                                          from brooks and granites gain

                                            cowering recluse, a charging cavalier

                                               out of the mist. The berth anew, bewildered

                                                  by this liquid leariness.

                                                     Not a place to sea the source etched

                                                      in deep groves. Matters not of maps;

                                                        forecasted, charted,  re-routing, and

                                                          never doubting.

                                                            Blind faith, la selva obscura,

                                                             branches of beliefs stretching,

                                                               growing isms opening buds,

                                                                revealing tips of truth.

                                                                  From: The Past

                                                                    To: The Present

                                                                     A sacrificial lamb

                                                                      sheared of

                                                                        symbolic strength

                                                                          covering paths of tortuous trails         

                                                                           dead ends trap and pray

                                                                            begging of another way

                                                                              boughs for none bending astray

                                                                               beckoning behind knotty burl

                                                                                snarled in growing, tread softly on shed

                                                                                  skin exposing the elements

                                                                                   Aware of wind, heightened

                                                                                    yet heedless of escape, leave in fear

                                                                                     bursting bold and brazen

                                                                                       The eternal flame

                                                                                         Embers, never forgetting

                                                                                          pulsing vein, rhythmic, infinite

                                                                                            bleeding, gushing forth,

                                                                                              in the current forward motion

                                                                                                breathing the days away

                                                                                                  In the middle of the grove

                                                                                                    downstream and deeper

                                                                                                     drowning in the thick
                                                                                                        Redwood Forest

"There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more." -Lord Byron

Feature image (1st) by Ilya Repin (1844-1930) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Second image, Redwood Forest "Fall Creek"