I read some old poems. The ideas were the same, but the man in the words no more. The sorrows were cold yesterday, bygone the imagery today, the voice distant forever.

Image Source: Pixabay If I wash my hands with foaming apple scented soap strong yet subtle, wafting up, and rub my cheeks and stretch the curling hairs shaping my beard with scented hands will she smell the orchard?

Image Source: Wikimedia I’ve hung my portrait in a tower, from the height of the staggered stones, the reflection bends on the sea, waves of light erode that bastion. On the throne atop the tower I stare at the painted portrait: elongated brush strokes in refined oils deigned my features, the walnut frame contained a mirror captured by imagination. Though I add rich browns and velvet reds something is amiss; over my shoulder the tower bends on the sea.

Image Source: Flickr For Brother Chad. “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles…” -The Apostle Paul Scoffers ask: “What purpose is there in singing?” in a crowd our voices rang, the faucet shut, the veil shattered at his feet and I held him as he wept.

Image Source: Pixabay Only five minutes to find a parking spot Do I have my wallet? Ouch! A pebble in my shoe Oh! Good. How much… Block, shredded, or slices? do I have? What is this hole in my shoe? Which aisle is… Twenty dollars cash. Where did it come from? Seven. Huh, I don’t recall its arrival. What flavor do I want? My toes shouldn’t be so free, no, Not mozzarella.

Image Source: Wikimedia The rusty truck bed was empty, Our hourly work Finished. Grandpa’d say, “Get in.” Mom and that man rode away When I was Born, their son, they didn’t care, Didn’t call, except for our couple bucks. The truck’s tires roared and spun mud up. Trees were coursing by, All that wood, A whole river of the stuff, I’d puke holding an axe— I hate splitting wood.

Woe to humanity! Conversation is fallen! Mighty were its walls— as a storm smothers sunlight so the siege darkened our speech and mounted in gusting winds Woe to the dinner table! For I was young in my days when the army amassed on the seams of sky and land— in a rush and in a charge they surged with flashing, bright colors from an Ethernet port bombarding us with advertisers’ catchy jingles and snappy slogans!

Image Source: Pixabay See the salt-rotten posts resting The dock’s not level the east corner sank some time ago; the upheaved boards and nails rusted and crooked See how the posts were chewed away cracked with running splits, worn by fish needing toothpicks stained green by algae See the wading posts beaten by waves, The dock still stands, but when will someone come for repairs?

From lift off and burning thoughts Through the clouds the plane turned down the cabby weaved and rolled from the outskirts to hotels downtown The destination—its streets, its corners, its patrons, its vices, its affairs—seasoned the food and I wrestled to keep my dinner down The neons flashed: bleeping, burning tubes that great swarm danced, circling their doom bypassing street performers and beholder traps strolling up the side walks in strides, buzzing around the electrocutioner, watching the lights on and off and on and off and on and off I tossed and I turned, I looked— double take: one beer down, two beers down the next poured, and again Cherries and golden sevens stream around Twenty five dollars down The horse hooves pound round Cigars burning down Round the turn they come Across the finish line Twenty five dollars down Was it whiskey poured and downed while fruitless politics hammered away as the men lounged, boasting unchallenged complaints?

The brown barked woods in columns rose, covered in summer’s sheath the tired path had captured dust and pebble. With striding lips I sang a merry tune under the coming blue twilight— the dawn’s veil whose rivers bent and bowed across the sky’s depths. Slowing to a stand at a peculiar architecture, this chorus man’s tongue stuttered with my boot steps at this sight unseen during journeys before, pond’ring my soles shuffled, for neither sawdust nor stump waited to be remembered.

Image Source: Pixabay "Peter, we know full well of denial." –The Difficulty, “We Are Not” Two voices call to me, I’m caught between two lays of sweeping sand, hills behind call me back, away, and hills ahead urge me forward. “Wake, my Seedling, chosen to be. Gently contoured, lavished with dirt; Hear rain rap trickling caresses.” “Child World, come and dance, come and flee. Come, Child World, witness, play, believe.

Image Source: Wikimedia Gothnákh, you foul rat! Take your grimy hands away or else I will gore you out, just like this hole you will be cold and stone. You left me on heap of straw for bed while you ran off for war with the pale-skinned and sun-walkers— Coward! Gothnákh, for maggots you spat me out in this cavernous filth! I ought run you through for making me snaga to be slid over by slavering gangs with hunched jaws!

Image Source: Wikimedia I don’t have much to say about best friends, but when thrusting a shovel for treasures, a wooden handle feels like rubbing money. Real Estate prices are rising after all. I want to unbury the truth about my profession: the dirt is soft seeping around my fingers dripping into muddy rivers. In winter, it is thick frozen like rocks. My knuckles shiver. I prefer bare hands.

Image Source: Wikimedia March on men of war Bum… Bum… Bum… March on to the beat of the drums Bum… Bum… Bum… March on with the flag March onward to the battlefields March on to the thunder of the cannons Bum… Bum… Bum… March on o’er hills and through valleys Bum… Bum… Bum… March on! March on, heed to your King March on his hand gestures and command Bum… Bum… Bum… “March on!

Five times I’ve seen the cord cut: pulled taut rough blade steadied, each swipe clean, frayed wire strings untied, each left alone.

The purple roses tinged with red your ailing body covered in sores. Kneeling you smell their scent free beside He Who purifies.

Fifty-two years of marriage had on Elms Road A willow tree and a gravel, dirt driveway A black furred, brown footed dachshund named Blackie Picnics in the backyard Flea market front yard sales Coffee at four in the morn, what a child’s getaway— Crayon dinosaur wallpaper Baked beans from Great Grandma’s newspaper clipping Frozen hotdogs served fresh Anxious gifts given even without money Car rides, iced tea, and Elvis’s songs The Blueberry Festival and more yard sales Fears of meat besides poultry, pork, and beef Her purpose motherhood, her strength family Drummond Island’s rocky shores, sandboxes and sand bees, no electricity, no running water, ice cream at the teepee, nighttime fires, a sinking pontoon Niagara Falls and a hand-holding competition

Image Source: Wikimedia The last bite I taste—the morsel: warm bread. I sold rights, freedom, bought the field, though poor, I’ve inherited field, but not a bed. My stomach wrenched taut; no food when I plead. Law pursued, a sign ahead: abundant. The last bite I taste—the morsel: warm bread. Through cities I searched too low for my head, what rest for burdens leaves you wanting more? I’ve inherited field, but not a bed.

In Loving Memory of William Carlos Wright October 9th, 1929 to June 29th, 2016 Let me not forget to remember how quick things pass— how many years will take flight and fade the colors of my mind; are tears really so helpful? Hope is stone not scarred by wind— strong and gentle, like the Manistee flowing through winding bends, more certain than steep banks. What has come was taken, couldn’t sink in one’s soul is like lost keys by holes in pockets and painful to forget.

Image Source: Wikimedia The merchant returns, the port cheers him and there he anchors, to resupply his empty hold. Old farmland horses pull carts down the docks to his great vessel. Hooves plod the sea-drenched harbor, smells of salt moisten the air. Wooden wheels clatter past rowing fishermen who’ve come to port from the City’s warrens for the morning market opening onto the bay and brine,  the merchant poises his back and locks his neck, clapping his hands with festive shouts reading the docket, and to insure this voyage’s goods, he eyes the curious mariners asking him about the itinerary and ready to work Unloading and hauling, his sailors arrange the fresh crates in aisles and towers,

Image Source: Wikimedia I approached the field, my eyes met the stems across my palms I held the harvest— calloused furls, smooth ochre, future straw bales and sackcloth flour for market, storehouses and homes; supported by tillers. The Farmer observed his hired hands. Their backs rotated—a clock face of tanned skin with shoulders wide; from dawn their arms ticked to dusk, leaning arched and stiff. Singing they gleaned and planted, but from their work, none could make the wheat grow.

Image Source: Wikimedia “From the days of John the Baptist until now the kingdom of heaven has suffered violence, and the violent take it by force.” –The Christ Farmhands smacked their tongues in burnt air, sweat slid along their brows, down as sweltering sunlight rippled and obscured the ground. From a furnace, their souls’ found relief in sweaty palms. For each laborer a satchel of seeds and broken steel.

Image Source: Wikimedia  I I couldn’t tarry, so I wandered the dusty road for work. My destination loomed ahead—yet my thoughts remained captivated with the wheat, but I stopped at the tall and charcoal gates that imprisoned the City on the Mount. Behind the walls a horn blew tumbling thunder. The dreadful sound bellowed earthquakes in rupture, the horn’s tone split—gales pulverizing woods, whistling and moaning, a darkening came on storm clouds.

Image Source: Wikimedia Limp I faced the hill. Like a child, swung and the bells pealed. Above the road I looked onto a wheat field. The Farmer winnowed. The rope frayed into chaff blown away by the wind. The sun rose and the flies, biting, were devouring nails. Clouds swayed, turning black overhead. The arms of three trees curved into music’s bow. Innocent blood on a hill. By day the trees sat taught atop the hill, against the full rope, the braided melody hummed in lashes when the bow’s hair was pressed and drawn.

Image Source: Wikimedia I watched them work. Pickaxes swung down, rakes drug, shovels dug, wheelbarrows brimming with stone hauled for drowning in the bay; land softened for tilling and cultivating of seed. Ash flitted from iron drums placed on the farm’s paths lined by torrid, smoking barrel fires, which farmhands could not approach. “There is no need for the rubble,” the Farmer tasked his hired hands, “nor is there room for the weeds.

Image Source: Wikimedia From a distant town I’ve come traveling to work along dust and dirt trails at the City on the Mount. Walls overlooked the countryside, edifices laid before the horizon where the road slipped between the city’s gates into skies and clouds fading into golden hues. But I paused.  A dry flood swept across tilled fields, When had I entered these fertile rows? The field spanned from side to side, down the road, to the far-off hills behind, around the City and its gazing walls.

Image Source: Wikimedia The Bridge waltzes, her legs wade— down with the Undertaker while cold rivers lurk with fishes beneath. From her skirt’s hem I took the plunge From her sweet hand I’m drowning in that river you’ve forgotten; the river’s overtaken me, sinking, pressured below— swept down with the currents. I beg you, please, look down from the brick arches. Peer out from the banks. Breathe, if just a moment.