Revival

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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Cachonne

The destiny of skies and objective ties,

My wrist have grown weaker by all means,

Pushing the weight of artificial suffering,

To horizons that fade with every tinge,

As a man’s skin hardens,

I clasp my hands in religious fervor,

As the Chaconne hums the sorrow of my past,

Am I a man in spite of my weakness,

Or is that my respite?

Lunch

I saw you,

In the little things:

The way I cross my Ts,

My hand still shakes,

As it dances with anxiety and memory,

You’d say “I’ll never leave you…”,

But war made you a liar,

As it always does.

Boots Approved

Boots approved,

Like a scab once removed;

A tank dances on pavement,

Click-clink Click-clink,

A pirouette of massive grace,

Click-clack Click-clack,

Metal and asphalt,

Commune in a torrent love affair,

Young and despondent,

An adolescent praise,

I thought I’d miss it,

The way youth burned my hands,

Our hearts fell in love with a cure,

That normalcy couldn’t endure,

Would write to you with inexbriant praises,

Between the Arabian desolation,

You’d forget my name,

Through western chaos,

Things changed…

Boots approved,

I was once removed,

And came back with someone

I never knew.

Mulberry Trees

I think of you,

Through the mulberry trees,

Low and deep,

Like your love for me,

Berries as full as your lips,

Seeds as hard as your words,

The sweetness of your touch,

Drips down my lips,

Like the blood of a bully,

Who has done too much,

I lay under you,

And you shade me

From rays determined to darken my face,

I pluck the best parts of you,

From callous fingers red and blistered,

That strum taut strings,

That gives your voice its cadence to ring,

When your branches are bare,

And has lost all its fruit to share,

I’ll till the weeds that cross your feet,

Waiting til winter’s edge encounters its spring defeat,

And think of you through the mulberry trees,

Where the sun sits low,

And the moon begins to sing.

You and Me

A world taken by iron and eagles,
With boys as young as 12,
Could I have stomached the grit of sand and blood at Normandy?
Or enraged frost of Stalingrad?
Lullabied by the rumblings of the Panzer,
And bouncing like a kid on the legs of his grandfather,
It must’ve been hell,
But who am I to know?
We shared the same oath,
And scoured the same earth,
Finding manhood,
In no man’s land,
But I dug no foxholes,
No rancorous winters at Bastogne,
When nights grew distilled,
We both drunk from an initiation
Only a few ever tasted,
As the sun snuggles into a blanket of horizon,
Silence heals our reprisals,
And it’s only you and me.

Streets

Anxiety starts to build into a roar.
Sweat glistens restless palms.
“What the hell am I doing?”
Escapes from the lips of a reserved man.
Delusions cease to confound confusions,
As passerbys are glued to screens with high resolutions,
And is it clear,
That I don’t know what I’m doing here.
Rising frost from my breath,
Jumps from a rising chest,
And frigid sleeping fingers,
Awakens like a discovered crest,
I fumble between heighten senses of elevations,
When spasmodic noises amplifies my frustrations,
And is it clear,
I don’t know what I’m doing here.
Congested roads slick with reflections,
Paints a man wandering and broken,
Grappling a pleading proclamation,
Besieging patrons for oil rubbed tokens,
His pleading eyes go unspoken,
And still,
I don’t know what I’m doing here.
Lost in a warm armor of drunken rage,
Shifting through bouts of confession and railing subterfuge,
I light a match and burn off these days,
Between splendor and despair,
Between darkness and light,
Between fury and flight,
I stumble along the path of fate:
Belligerent and sputtering.

Vestiges

Through jeep trails,
And mountain ranges,
Littered with the ore of miner’s ambitions,
I seek a place:
A piece of Earth not scorched by the obsessiveness of hate,
But a calm that drips full of honey,
And brims sweetly of nectar whose bite is tender and subduing,
I sleep during the summer noons,
On logs wiser than I;
Sap glues the sweat of a hundred men to the same condition:
The condition of escape and wonder,
Of redemption,
Of past glories memorialized over sagging guts and wobbled knees,
And the revelation that a satisfying brew surrounded by souls isn’t a time machine.

Now the moon has come out to play,
I sit swayed by the taunting breeze,
As mud hugs my shabby and assaulting boots , I think:
I want to create beautiful things,
Precious and delicate,
Breathing and contorting,
Inspired and reverting.