Waylon

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You, wayward highwayman of mine
Go where you will
Go where you wouldn’t
I have already found you
Hidden from their eyes
Yet blazing
Screaming through the Skies

Prospector

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I am never going to tell.

I’ll talk circles around them when they inquire and railroad them as they pry. I’ll question their questioning, “Isn’t it obvious?” I’ll ask.

And should they speculate, I’ll lead them on, Westward, with the same come-hither look in my eyes that you gave me.

You taught me what I’ll teach them: Find the glory…find you’re gold.

Gentlepoet

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Boundaries

Drawing them in bold, black ink and silvery stardust

Screaming-streamed across the age-old sky

Can do nothing to take back my life

Can it

Filters

Weaving them with silken strands and begging hands

Humbly offered across the communal table

Will do nothing to bring back the gentleman

Will it

Reacquired

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How sometimes a Poem feels far too epic to manage anything more than a near-silent sigh of an utterance.

Often, you leave it at that, knowing another day, some other-worldly language, will surely present.

Persist, this poem will, and might seem, at times, like too much, or that you are not enough to tell It’s tale.

Everlasting is your love and your musings of It, this storybook Story, this Force to be reckoned, this Poet.

Benevolent Sky

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Why the sky wanted me as its muse

I cannot say

I’d not wish to betray its lifelong, headstrong whimsy?

In its own whirlwind of Days, I was its only constant?

Pressure, and I the soft voice that reduced the storm of it all?

Mercy, it contained and it wanted to rain upon me?

Surely it cannot be a great love for me. Or…can it be?

On the possibilities, I pretend to opine

But I cannot say