Pathways

“Do not go where the path may lead; go instead where there is no path and leave a trail”
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Far from the usual
ways are the paths
I travel.

Follow at your peril,
for you may not expect
where I lead.

You will find rare
revelations, magical
mysteries,

messages of hope, fear
and salvation. Along
the way will be perils:

love and hate, victory
and defeat.

My paths are not your paths,
but, if you have the courage

to go with me, you may find
what you seek,

perhaps even more.

“Finding the tool to unlock hidden pathways is a gift few people have – Unless you have a key.” (Photo credit: Jerrycharlotte)

For the Poets United Vice/Versa prompt.

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No Sympathy For Mortals

Give no sympathy
to the mortals —

measly men, in senseless
exertion to direct destinies
and assign structure
to paradise —

in a constant state
of humble failure.

They are dependent
on the effort, the exercise
of will and vigor
in the pursuit of the trite
objectives
of Freedom
and Excellence.

Do not abhor their defeat,
nor laugh at their endeavors,
for it is the striving
that gives them life,

without it, they will
surely die.

Waiting for the Fall, Prague, Czech Republic (Photo credit: Grufnik)

From one of Shawna’s word list at Flipside Records.

 

Sidewalk

He sat on the sidewalk
in front of the old house,
running his hand over
the rough concrete.

A child’s wayward ball
bounces past,
visions of a robust life.

Memories settle into
the porous path like
the colored chalk
stains in the channels.

A child’s wayward ball
bounces past,
recollection of a strange life.

Recalling falling,
the frenzy of an attack,
surprise, fear
and a world shattered.

A child’s wayward ball
bounces past,
recalls pain of a normal life.

Fingertips release sublime
sensations; form and substance
found in faint histories hidden
beneath the hard surface.

A child’s wayward ball
bounces past.

For the Sunday Whirl

Shared at dVerse.

Counter-Culture

She takes her culture
through a straw —
a double on the weekends —
and finds German food
pedestrian, oysters
unpalatable. Brie with
red pepper jelly
and broiled lobster
being more to
her taste.

He, an amateur musician,
playing street corners —
psychedelic clubs
on good nights —
on the bad nights he plays
blind through the migraine
with fairy lights dancing
behind his eyes.

He smelled the lobster
one night when he played
beneath her window,
not knowing what it was,
only that he was hungry.

Once, she gave his
hat a dollar, then laughed
at his mis-matched black
and white shoelaces
as she walked away.

A second one for Shawna’s word list.
Also shared at dVerse for Victoria’s “Balance” prompt,
though this one is sort of out of balance.

Searching

Treetop coral filters
light through the veil
of humid air

I kick-shuffle among
the leaf litter and
fungus

uncovering dying tree
roots instead of hidden
universal truths

Leaves on a Forest Floor (Photo credit: Rennett Stowe)

Taken from Shawna’s latest word list.

A Glass Of Wine

It is a good day
for a glass of wine —
red —
a sunrise walk
on the beach,
and again at sunset.

A sunday drive would
suit this day,
a route to nowhere
while exploring everywhere.

Food should be had —
southern in style —
pancakes for breakfast,
raid the ever-full pantry
and fridge for lunch,
enough to feed Cox’s Army
for dinner…chess pie,
banana pudding,
blackberry cobbler…..

Memories will be explored
this day;
grandchildren’s love, screened
porches and rocking chairs,
meals and mountain roads,
pets and the ‘adopted’ kids
children bring home.
Too many to list, too many
to forget.

Holiday’s and vacations,
time around tables
and the kitchen island —
eating while standing —
homemade cheese popcorn,
books everywhere, family
pictures wherever you look.

Short of time, all out of fight,
betrayed by a body, treatment
worse than results…the first
time she was not happy
to see her son. Not ready,
not ready, not ready…..

It is a good day
for a glass of wine.

 

Happy Birthday Mom
Pat Windham
July 23, 1944 – September 27, 2009

Futile

Treasure collected
throughout life, stored in a niche,
found there after death.

Haiku written for Sunday Scribblings and One Single Impression

Eight

Circumcised on the eighth hour
of the eighth day,
an explorer and seeker.
Always needing answers,
never satisfied with new beginnings
or angels carrying thrones
or leaves on a lotus flower
or things that never end.

Peace finally found in a figure skater —
grace, skill, perfection — gouging eights
in the ice. She left in August for cooler
climes. Questing again, he came upon
Dame Fortune — her eight-spoked wheel
crushing slave, king and poet —
and spat at her indifferent feet.

Written for The Mag photo prompt. Key to symbolism of eight: a new start/beginning in Judaism, Muslims believe eight angels carry the throne of Allah in the heavens, the lotus flower is one of the Buddhist Eight Auspicious Symbols, the symbol for infinity (laid on its side). Dame Fortune and the line following is from the Burne Jones Wheel of Fortune painting.

Lair

Her walls were painted gold,
while she kept the grasses
a melancholy blue.

Pale powders cover rosy skin,
eyelashes highlighted,
cleavage revealed,

lazing in her swing under
the weeping willow, capturing strays
with a fling of erotic thoughts.

Girls In the Swing (Photo credit: Sachmanns.dk)

 

For the Sunday Whirl Wordle.

Friday

It was Tuesday when he emerged.
“Is it Friday yet?” he would ask.

Bitter bile bites at his throat,
bitter images haunt his thoughts.

He waited, at least ’till Thursday,
answered ego’s requirement to earn,
but Friday was a goal too far.

I watched him build up and fall apart
like sand castles on the shore.

It was bad when it rained
because memories collect in puddles,
it was worse when they dried.

“Is it Friday Yet?”

Bitter images haunt his thoughts
and catch with the bile in his throat,
because pain is swallowed when
it cannot be spoken.

“Is it Friday yet?”

My brother, my friend, if only my breaking
heart were enough to heal yours.

Puddle (Photo credit: Flower Ring)

 

 

 

 

 

 

For Margo’s Tuesday Tryout ‘acrostic’ prompt. This one is a a sentence acrostic. Actually it is a poem acrostic, or at least a partial one. The first word of each line is taken from In The Desert by Stephen Crane. The first poem to get me interested in reading and writing the stuff. 🙂 I tried to adhere a bit to his style as well.