MARCH HARE

Sorry folks, but I’ve been involved in a what is for me – a major construction project, my computer is often buried in junk as I struggle to build a jungle suitable for mom’s chinese water dragon – a lizard who’s space requirements – come to find out – are wildly disperportionate to  its relitively small size. I had also recieved an E-mail from a small online publisher who isen’t excepting but seems to be sniffing at the bait. I seasoned my work some more and sent it back. This will continue until a deal is made or a restraining order is issued.  

Mean while I managed to complete another fun poem. For those who find it confusing, I’ll state it references the Alice in Wonderland duology – I’ve seen many movies but would really like to read the books –  

You live on a rock you think to be flat,

while the moon laughs above you

like a Cheshire cat.

 

This is the inside,

but where is the out?

Your world is a small one,

and yet you must shout.

Quickly I race

through the loud repetition

and into a hole

in your own superstition.

Your late,

your late,

for a brief chance encounter

with an odd twist of fate.

Should you

dare to venture

around the next bend,

there just might be something

that will make our heads spin.

Like you, I am tired of rushing about.

It’s time

for that clock

to be turned inside out.

How long must we travel

to see something crazy?

The powers that be,

I feel,

have gone lazy.

Look There!

Wonderland waits

through a hole in the air.

Just a skip

and a jump

through a jabberwock’s lair.

We’ll pledge no allegiance

to hope or despair,

for you are the White Rabbit

and I the March Hare.

 

You live in a world

full of order and rules.

It’s time you skipped off

to a party with fools.

Hats shall be worn

and tea shall be swallowed.

I’ll bring extra chairs.

Just in case

you are followed.

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Reckless Quest.

We lie here under endless skies,

faceing that space between truth and lies.

The air catches fire as the sunset dies.

 

We wonder,

 

if hell is a gateway –

and heaven’s just a consolation prize.

 

What if the world truly is perfect,

and it’s we who are flawed?

When a wound never heals,

what if this is just how happiness feels?

 

Perhaps, it is we, who should learn to enjoy it.

Perhaps, it is we, who are missing the point.

Perhaps, we are not, to assume that there is one.

 

We cling to these reins,

our own preconceptions.

Perhaps it is right,

that we cast them away.

 

Perhaps before,

we let reason escape us,

 

we should reach out

and catch hold of this beast.

 

Follow it far, toward the darkest horizons

and there learn to master this thing that we are.

 

What if pain contains knowledge

from which we are not meant to hide?

 

What if life is just that wild horse

you were born to ride?

Legends Wait.

 Secrets come and secrets go.

Secrets pass fore all who know,

till all is lost and thus forgotten.

 

All is gone, gone, far away.

 

Yet past the veil, the unremembered,

the outer realm of truth unknown,

there where fact is undetermined

yawns the pit where lies are thrown.

 

Above them, winds of speculation,

stir and beckon to the soul,

yet onward runs the endless journey

toward some shining, distant goal.

 

Still there always is that boundary

beyond the limits of clear sight,

that sacred, hidden country

where shadows bend the light.

 

Beyond this screen of mystery,

an ever-changing history

turns the wheels of fate.

 

Beyond these doors

these ancient pathways

beyond the lone,

secluded gate,

the oaken doors roar open.

 

It is here,

that legends wait.

Northbound Train

NORTHBOUND TRAIN

A highway runs

near a quiet park.

The night is cool.

The sky is dark.

The swings cast shadows

on the grass,

that creep across

a lake of glass.

Coming across the field fast –

In the blink of an eye,

it’s already passed.

Merely a trick, of the light

but I knew in my heart

that couldn’t be right.

What I had seen,

was a northbound train,

where the old north tracks

went to rust in the rain.

I wondered then

if it would fly

across the fallen trestle.

Like a haunted clipper ship;

some wraith’s unearthly vessel.

Can it be that such things,

have ghosts at their helms,

or is time a mere wall,

a space between realms.

Yule Storm

I’ll be willing to bet Santa has one of these on the door of his dojo.

YULE STORM

A storm hath risen . . .

blowing ghosts from their prison

like sand through a sieve.

They shall all dance together

as the bells ring forever

here on all hollows eve.

The wild hunt commeth

with a black horse’s whinny.

Howl the hounds in the hills,

sound great the horn of plenty.

These are the days of friends, foe’s, and feasts,

when pilgrims and braves,

witches and naves,

all dine till the sun shows her face in the East.

The Halls, shall be decked to the uppermost gables,

Fools on their pedestals.

Kings in their stables.

Larders or swelling

From Gaia’s dark dwelling

Come all far and near

See the wheels that are spinning

tis the end

the beginning

tis the close of the year.

Wolves of the Circle

I woulden't recommend the salad . . .

 
  There was a man, born to the land,

who tilled the earth, with a heavy hand,

till thought he, “I long to be free.”

and so that man, he crossed the sea.

 

There he swore, on that foreign shore,

to serve his lords, and ladies no more.

As he stood, Green eyes in the wood –

 

They watched him.

They watched him.

 

Our hero then, he took an ax,

and filled the air with heavy cracks.

All around, up came the town.

As word got round’ –

 

They watched him.

They watched him.

 

He sang a challenge to the wild.

Twas the noble savage,

In every child.

 

“I am king, king of this rock.

Deer and Bison, my livestock!

Red man with, the feathered head,

fear my god, or I’ll make you dead!”

 

He found a wife and soon got wed,

to a fine, young lass, who made his bed.

Fields of grain, grew by the mile,

and all the while –

 

They watched him.

They watched him.

 

He went out one night, to slay a ram,

but someone stole, his feast of lamb.

Growling softly from the wood –

 

They watched him.

They watched him.

 

He vowed to tame, both beast and tree,

for in his mind, only one, should be free.

As time on wore,

he began to see,

the scratch marks on his door.

 

In God’s own name, he vowed on Sunday,

“I’ll purge these woods, of their wolves by Monday!”

 

but the years, went racing by,

and in despair, he began to cry.

Wild eyes,

so fierce and wise,

 

They watched him.

They watched him.

 

Then the scratch marks, on his face.

his tired heart, began to race,

and limping he, began to hide,

behind the strong sons of his bride.

 

They sent for a doctor, who did place,

him in a locked room, wet cloth on his face.

 

“Your father he, will never survive,

a day out of doors, so keep him inside.

So there we have our hero now,

at the feet of every hen and cow,

that stocked his table in the past.

The hammer is ready he will be the last.

 

but wait,

weeks roll by, and it seems of late,

the land lord, will escape his fate,

for in the woods, his foe’s stand freezin’,

hunting has been poor this season.

Yet still, with fading hopes, they scratch,

at the windows weathered thatch,

with haggard, cold, and hungry eyes –

 

They watch him

They watch him.

 

His daughters keep the shutters tight,

to beat back the cold winds, that blow in the night,

but without the clean air, smoke fills the cabin,

dead air from the fire, blankets his lungs.

He dreams of the wild, the wild he hated,

a force he abated,

but secretly loved.

 

Quickly a gale, rattles the gutters,

rips through the shutters,

as in peers a family, fierce as his own.

On this day having cornered their prey,

we find them weak, and unable to leap,

through one Low window.

 

They cry in despair,

their cubs have collapsed

they must leave them there.

 

With one last breath they turn –

To watch him.

To watch him.

 

Then a whisper, by his ear,

“In trying to escape your fear,

you’ve found a truth far worse,

lie forever in bed, or escape the curse.

 

Strength I give you, one last chance,

a single breath, for a single dance.

leave the sterile treeless hell.”

 

In this hour of fate, all fences fell.

He saw the buzzards souring high,

heard the crys of their chicks,

for something to die,

saw flies born of the recent dead,

stocking a fresh filled spider web.

 

Thus the circle did he see,

an endless feast,

for all.

 

Without a thought,

outside he walked,

and sang up to the sky.

“If I must live on sterile sheets

then with you my friend I’ll die!”

 

Upon him they fell,

and he gave a yell,

as everything he’d done,

was purged from his mind

in equal kind,

as man and beast were one.

 

As his flesh was torn free,

fat pups he did see,

as strange beings carried him off.

 

We are sorry to say,

in that world he wont stay,

to this day he roams in the wood.

Off goes an owl,

at the sound of his howl,

when all the pack is at hand,

‘round a solid,

granite grey wolf,

a wolf with eyes of a man.

 

They watch him.

They watch him.

 

 

Playing With Dragons.

 Hill King’s Mantra.

Spread your wings and feel your fire

burning brightly in your chest.

Know your spirit.

See your power.

Grip the stone on which you rest.

Clear your throat and let your voice call.

Great green mountains,

there your kingdom

rises up to meet your presence

in the early morning light.

Stand and strut fourth proudly

as your arms embrace the thermals.

Run headlong into the sunrise

over hills so high and green.

Great, green mountains

now below you

fine, white mist upon their crowns

Flowing slowly over forests

there to lie upon the downs.

May the greenwood stand immortal

over all that lives and dies,

May the white hot rush of sunlight

Meet the fury in your eyes.

Raise your head and raise your talons

To the bright and hazy sun.

Clear your throat and let your voice call

With my kingdom

I am one.

 

Adversity.

I’ve seen it on the edge of town,

creeping,

green,

 across the ground.

Oozing up

through sidewalk cracks,

gnawing holes

in wicker sacks,

souring high

on warm winds rising,

racing fast

 in tunnels deep

it’s stirring in the air we breath

and watching

– waiting –

when we sleep.

Secrets

no man wants to hear,

wonders

many others fear,

winds that raze the widest wall,

a rushing tide that conquers all,

fires fiercer

then my soul,

waters deeper,

roar and roll,

and it lies

beneath these skies.

Outside these doors,

a dragon roars.

Its voice is louder then a siren,

warning of felony

or fate

and those who’ve stood

beneath it’s shadow

Can not help but stare agape.

For no man’s plan

it walks.

For no mans pride

it talks.

It lives for no mans table,

and is Neither fact or fable.

Yet we long for but a glance.

Forsaking peace and quiet

to say we’ve stood beside it,

and at our destiny arrived,

say we’ve seen it,

and survived.

If only for an instant.

 

(Note; every time one of these poems is read aloud, a dragon will get its wings.)

. . . and before any of you say it, yes –

I am full of crap.

and proud of it.