No Strings Attached

it is fairly easy
to lose an old shoe
while you force yourself
to run on unfamiliar tracks

& if the pace you chose
leaves you limping,
you are left with
longing for your old, abandoned shoe
and a wet, muddy sock.

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Thin&Stretched

Bilbo once
tape-measured my sanity
but never mentioned that I
was a few inches short

I wish I had known
for I would never have walked into Mordor
without my
own personal Sam

& at the end of the day
it is not The One Ring
that rules us all –
but love, in all its facets.

Ghostdancers

Miyelo6b
– Miyelo 6, Viggo Mortensen

Tokša wanweglakin kte
Tokša wanweglakin kte
Nihun k’un he heye lo
Nihun k’un he heye lo

Later I shall see my own
Later I shall see my own
Your mother said it so
Your mother said it so

(Oglala Lakota Chant)

***

heartfire roots
grow beneath a crust of modern life
and struggle
not to be forgotten

what we don’t see
isn’t there
isn’t     there
i    s            n    o       t              t       h        e             r                  e
& we firmly grip the leash
on our minds’ journeys.

what we don’t see
isn’t there.
Isn’t there.

a blink,

is it there?

__________________________________________________________________
Claudia over at dVerse invites us to write about Fata Morganas and summer heat illusions for Poetics today. Grab a pen and join us at the bar!
photo credits: Viggo Mortensen

This Town

“It will be long ere the marshes resume,
I will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But see all wind-stirred.”
— Robert Frost, Now Close The Windows

This town, a ghost
Haunting; absent shadows
They lie, uncovered
And weigh heavy on
Catatonia;
Mankind’s woven tomb
Absent soil or mourners,
Absent loving words;
No flowers left to bloom ~
It will be long ere the marshes resume

This town, an echo
Driven into stone
By callused hearts,
As if it were flesh;
And mortar tears
Veil the cries of the Unheard,
Now frozen,
Bury words in darkest night;
Brand dreams of summer days absurd ~
I will be long ere the earliest bird

This town, a song
Of long forgotten days;
Of courage, worn away
By rain’s steady trick (trick?) trick-le;
Dancers’ feet now heavy, weighed with years of mud,
Ancient tunes, hollow; stripped and skinned,
Taunt drowning minds
With adjunct notes,
Leave consciousness thinned ~
So close the windows and not hear the wind

This town, a paradigm;
Indifference taped to every door,
Nailed to every soul that roams the streets.
The crosses we bear
Tower high above our heads,
Leave meaning absent word;
So we squint;
Cover eyes with shades of mirth,
Hold on to fraying dreams, now blurred ~
But (at day’s end) see all wind-stirred.

__________________________________________________________________
Samuel Peralta over at dVerse has us experimenting with the Glosa, a form of poetry of the late 14th century. It starts out with the Cabeza, four lines I borrowed from the marvellous Robert Frost, which provide the ending lines for the following four stanzas.  This is my contribution to Samuel’s great challenge.
Grab a drink and join us at the bar!