Archive for Poetry

One more time

The last two weeks I’ve posted parts of a poem. Here is part one, and over here is part two.

And now the third and final part.


(Being part 3 in Walking)

I didn’t choose a path in life. A road, no matter its condition,

is a noose.  I can’t speak on the lonely highway,

nor can I tell the aim of its pursuits. I have yet to see

the grass on the shoulder on the road. The rocks there are

markers for the damned. The dead give a warning all acknowledge yet

it’s meaning is muted. No one hears the story of the highwaymen

who lie there, in their granite graves.

A traveler asked me about my journey

and only spoke of his own. He was ensnared by his God.

I laughed at his jokes and he became uneasy

as he tried to tell me, in high speech,

that I have chosen too many roads,

and thus walk none. He was kind and platonic.

He knows nothing.

I have a map. It has cities and villages

but not a single road or highway.

It is not a how, but a what. This map is the

guide to the those who never go.

It is meant for you


On the road again…again…

Last week, I posted part one of a three part poem.

This is part two.


(Being part 2 in Walking)

He has cast iron eyes.

The tears that fall onto the road

are smolders. This water dimples the paving stones.

He cries because he is trapped on the highway.

Made to shuffle between purgatories in a track laid down by

the ones who reached paradise and put up walls.

Lost on the shoulder, he is chipped. Tell him, where

is the heaven on the rise? He might have known were

the years not grass, his hands not cracked, and life not chalk on his tongue.

There is a pond at the left shoulder. No, it is a lake.

He would gaze upon it, but he lacks the company,

and the temple of the one true God  is in ruin on the right,

burning like a whicker idol. He does not feel the flame.

Trekking in ruts like canyons, his limbs will fail. And soon,

the only notion of his life will be gone from here. He passes many on

the road. He will not stop, and it will not end. There is nothing behind the

curtain, and his feet will rub away until his legs stop moving.


On the Road again!

An other poem. I have been in a very poetic mood. Enjoy!


(Being part 1 of Walking)

The man Jesus was found of the highway. The roads then were

fine Roman work that lasted none the less. His lot

fallowed the word and his feet, when they felt like it, and never  truly

in step with either. Still, the Christ child went from place to place, in

the cradle of life. The road under foot was the veins from his chest.

The first of the great walkers is gone from earth. He left, and others

have tried the highway of diamonds, but no it is deserted.

There are no travelers, only the four, the horsemen,

it is their turf now. Only the blind come near these places.

Still, the flood will come. No one will know

the horror of the fallen man. The record of our

failure in this course will be a permanent scene

in the sediment of the eastern Eden.  No one

will hear us, no one will see a shield barring our

face. The death of my people descends

and all we do is walk toward it.