I’ve dreamt about that cabin in the woods;
A fortress from the hurlings of societies’ wails,
Sheltered in the encampment of timber and mercy,
I found my soul in the mesas,
Upon the ruins and crevices of time,
I journeyed up the glacial cliffs,
Where warmth made love to the creases of age.
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I awaken to the dew of nothingness;
Beyond the seas of tragedy,
I enter the plane of refuge;
No longer chased by the steads of chaos,
I am still as I ride onto the carpet of the winds;
Currents subdued by chance,
I dive in solitude,
But not from a movement of aloneness,
But of gratitude.
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I yearn for the freedom of the road,
Where the Airstream pumps the beat of my heart,
The shadows of the landscape,
Lights the caverns of serendipity,
Rolling through its divine,
I feel it’s allure,
Taunting and insightful,
Its lips pursed stealing a kiss from my obedience.
Love is in the details,
Hidden and coy,
But intense like the breath of God.
The sun serenades through the summit,
As the dusky sky calls to the nocturnal,
Boots cozied by the fire,
Releasing the stories it holds,
From the rambunctious of asphalt,
To the headiness of backwoods dirt,
Forgiveness drifts to where only the stars can see,
Loitering in contemplation,
The moons winks in revival.
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I hold the mountains if they were my own,
Losing a part of myself in the sunrise;
The cresting warmth against the moody cliffs,
Hugs the snow-capped peaks;
So high they could shake the hand of God,
I sink into the forgetfulness of urban life,
As I fall in love with places,
That I’ve never been.
I walked along a trail,
Going nowhere;
The Fall’s delirium
Keeping me at bay,
The leaves cry beneath my steps,
I wonder if they had any falling regrets,
I carved you into a tree,
To leave you where the timber sleeps,
And gave you back to a world,
That knows not the way it seeps,
My breath slow and somber,
To the details that lay ahead,
To the russling of the sheets,
That muddles the beds we made,
The creek whimpers to a sigh,
From the currents the day has gave,
I crossed paths with a squirrel,
Who nibbled at the fruits of the sky,
Who tussled the soil of the earth,
And ran from my prying eyes,
He left me alone,
As alone as I ever was,
To devour the recompense,
Of shaming grooves,
And things untold,
Only to the wind,
That wonders if it blows again.
The hills have eyes,
And I am taunted by the buzzing of insects,
Who are nature’s daredevils.
I brush away the serene annoyance
Of a summer’s day;
A woodpecker selects his dinner,
Through bangs and scrapings,
Of a warm breeze that engulfs me
Like a warm blanket under a winter’s tree,
I ride like a cowboy,
Chewspit and all,
Gunslinging through the hills before night falls,
I ask the same questions,
Questions that have no answers,
The blood of thorns that drips down my legs,
Tells me that Earth feels my pain,
Like a dunkard I am born again,
Trees become my pews in which I repent against,
The hills have eyes,
As I mutter through its rich sublime,
I am at my most freest,
When my heart is blind.
War Poems 