Red Hawk

There was a great treasure to be found

in the trickling of streams

and the hills rising to mountains

in our hearts

and the breeze says

wipe away the tears

and there was much rejoicing

and kind company

where upon the stone

I lay to hear something right

to a commercial inheritance

away from all the noise

to where the sound is pure

and dignified

in this where it wouldn’t matter

to be angry

for you’re stuck

all together in a

life of the tribe

till you quit breathing.

-

Flip into neutral

and glide down the desert back-lane

as a breeze of sky and sand

until you reach the sound of sparrows

in green trees

announcing home

and you see two doves

and raven upon wing

just above with the moment

and crossing the threshold

into the right time and place

of sunny sweet belonging

-

Rage

of the age

and give a bit o’ bread

to soak in wine

spilling on the bridge

and stinking of dirty nights

wasted

where anger was the excuse

for sins

which were such because

you knew it was pointless

and fallen in drink

and soaked with a wink

we disgust ourselves

and are wasted

-

Our daily bread

destruction and creation

death and romance

chaos

The pardoning paradoxical placement

of the poet among the stars

storyteller of eons

all exist now

or never

-

Run,

running,

can’t stop the mind.

I don’t know if it’s sane,

but I can stay for a while.

Who could see this man

and not think him a loon?

What have I made of myself,

and why am I so old

so soon?

–excerpt from "If" - Woodsmoke for Men