Lost in the metaphor of you,
I submit
one last time.
The shackles of persistence
hang like a low
dark cloud upon my shoulders
and truth is a key I wear around
my neck, weighing me down.

Knowing glances, and glaring scorn
were how King Rodney's rep was born.
Earth's gravitational pull aside,
King Rodney wanted to simply hide!
coercedly cast in public's eye
King Rodney, way too young to die.

Sorrow's sweaty palm on his brow
"Can't we all just get along, somehow?"
A troubled past has worn him down,
his worried grimace, a perpetual frown.
Decidedly cast into the public's eye
King Rodney, way too young to die.

I've walked wild trails for far too long
in my quest for solitude and game,
both back when I was young and strong
and now that I've grown old and lame.

Not for me the gentle ways
paved and free of briers and brush
tread on naught but sunny days,
trampled flat by steady rush.

Let such paths be left to others
who always choose the easy route,
who don't mind jostling with their brothers
in tame herds milling all about.

Form
-
-
By RW
-
1
-
Form
Form-less
words in a torrent
meet a dam with tiny holes
and I the boy observing
the trickle or the roar
sticking fingers in to control
volumes, tones
-
-
2
I the aspirant, squeezing
and stretching, strong-arming
nouns, verbs, adjectives
with the wrong size of wrench
-
I the technician, picking a template
with which to put clever twists
and spontaneous spurts of
un-spermatic lyric
-

If I could
tie rocks to clouds
give the angel of death
her wings,
I would love you any way
I could;

I would open my heart and let
you barge in unannounced
let you lay the foundation
of our home;

I would read the inscription
on this wall
between living and dying
with the braille of fingertips,
and the sweetness of a tongue;

I would descend like a dark angel
and steal you away.
Make you holy as a mountain.
Make love to you as if there
were no defeat.

don't cry for me when I am gone
don't brood and weep on my icon
don't query everything cosmic
those questions serve to make you sick
and truth from here will not be won

when mind on granite stones dwells on
one ends up spiritually wan
the topic's cyclic, not tragic
don't cry for me

The life force,
that takes you onward,
flickers then fades
away to another place.

Prisms of the soul,
splitting waves,
to colour our feelings,
draped in hope.

Tattered thought
project life's abyss,
then upward,
to claim a God.

These things are eternal,
and will always flow,
least you forget,
you are a lonely soul.

Outward to barren soil,
inward lighting ways,
screaming truths
No! that is not so.

Excellent humor you inject,
into a solitude of times' occurrence
I shall convey to the unfortunate guy
that tis his time to bide,
so let him no more moan
for a flower now torn
and petals strewn,
upon raw paths unknown,
yet which all have to travel alone.

I yet recall another guy’s funeral.
he asked the pastor’ or what,
what to do after the burial was history
and twas time to be back home.
the guy advised
do what he would have done,
at this hour, had he been alive
and you dead.

fat green days of heat
the rain still misting

On hot summer days
my mind drifts back to the past
fishing beaver ponds
with my departed brother
to escape the heat