Tag: blotchedpoems

Hickory

Once again I ride the town,

Hop on board until

The end of the line.

Through this haze

Of hickory smoke from

Wildfires too close for comfort.

Morning mists not yet burned

Mean everything is grey,

Sinking in deeper

As we saunter downtown.

It’s thick and it’s hot

Leaving streaks on windows

As though it’s the sweat of the flame.

Not the first time

Won’t be the last

Thay I pray for rain.

For pregnant clouds to come

And birth that fresh new life

On all that smoulders.

– Vagabond Prophet

Frigid

vagabondprophet:

The wind bites my face

And I know that’s your embrace

But it hurts,

Must you be so cold?

I make a hot cup of something

See I’ve got an answer for everything,

As usual I’m either too smart

Or too dumb.

I don’t even know which

It changes like a switch,

So let the wind bite my face

And make my legs go numb.

Let me stay stranded in the cold

No choice but to be bold,

When I’m captured by your might

Captivated by frightful beauty.

Make your frosty tongue

Climb every rung

And run piercing

Through every passageway.

Don’t give me a way out

Don’t make it a fair bout,

Call me to yourself

Grip me firmly.

Take me in your hand

Put on me your brand

Enchant me with

Your frigid brilliance.

– Vagabond Prophet

Soundtrack

I hear desperation sing out

From the shower down the hall,

Plaintive moans

From yet stretching chords.

It harmonizes with carts

Rolling along down the street,

The screeching tires

And the angry cries

At nights most hurting hours.

It’s the soundtrack of the city

Shouting at the great boot

That would stamp out the light

But for the disjointed resistance,

The reluctant militia.

We march in all directions

Starting as many fires as we put out,

Yet onwards ever onwards.

Even at 3 A.M.

The rubber never leaves the road

And the resilience to survive

Is never stopped, only slowed.

– Vagabond Prophet

Chronicles

Wood grain warped by knot in center,

The weakness the flaw

Removed to learn it was the cornerstone.

Extracted and everything starts to crack

Splintering lines rush to furthest border,

Why is it so that we should crumble without scars?

The chronicles of your ventricles

The hallways your blood strolls through

Provide for me an answer.

The best things the strongest things

Are made so by pressure

By a measure of suffering

And persecution,

The flower pressed

Preserved by adversity.

– Vagabond Prophet

Fickle Plumage

vagabondprophet:

Diuretic of the mind,

Extruded thoughts

Shaped by force.

Dread and malevolence,

Hornets in my pockets,

All good excuses.

I know the real reason

I push everything out

At transparency o’clock.

I pluck every bit out,

All that fickle plumage,

To let you see underneath.

I don’t need both hands

To count all my friends,

I just need both hands to be thankful

For the friends I have.

– Vagabond Prophet

Fruits of the Spirit #6

Goodness as defined by the poets dictionary:

Definition: Goodness can’t fit properly in a person so it comes out the hands and it pours out the lips.

Goodness cares nothing for its host, but rather for those around the host. This most generous of parasites that would give your possessions away simply because another has greater need.

Other definitions include: The change one wants to see in the world, dancing down the street to unheard music handing out sandwiches.

Care for others, regardless of liking the others in question.

Antonyms: Selfish, self-centered, Unempathetic.

Only goodness forsakes its own hunger, to feed a starving stranger.

– Vagabond Prophet

@mildreflections we’re almost finished! Can’t wait to see what you do next.

Onion

Exiles from the country

We’ve only ever dreamt of,

Refugees from the war

Inside us all.

Like a child miscarried,

The loss complete

But the blood just keeps coming.

I have worked for the firing squad

And know they never exhaust their work,

That injustice builds a tower

Weighty enough to soften

The strongest of spines.

I know that the aortic drum

That beats insistently

With bright red sounds,

Can drive one mad

With its loud demands.

For reasons such as these

Death row can be a freedom,

Homecoming in the coming of death.

A concrete and tangible end,

Real life to sink one’s teeth into

Before your teeth is all that’s left.

Every lungful Sisyphus’ work,

Life too much at full strength,

Some people taking handfuls of night

Just to get through the day.

Oh to find some relief

In this march to our demise.

Lean in close now,

Bend your ear to my lips

As I whisper urgently

With news that changes everything.

Your circumstance may remain,

But perspective is everything

Learning that not all blows

Are for breaking but for shaping.

Be the sculpture carved

From the inside out

With hope turning red from blue

As it swims to the surface.

Peel back the layers

Feel your eyes well up

I’m not an onion I’m a man

Transformed from an earthen bulb

Some black layers true,

But I’m pushing past the dirt now

And you can too.

– Vagabond Prophet

– Thanks @josy57 for prompting me with “Sisyphus’ work.”