Tag: spilled thoughts

Fuego

I am the fire burning in your heart.

Not a flickering spark

Not cooling embers from a night

With no embrace.

I am the blazing fury of the sun

And the sun itself,

Burning just for you,

Come now for we embark

Upon the path to become

A flaming tendril yourself.

– Vagabond Prophet

Fruits of the Spirit #3

Faithfulness as defined by the poets dictionary:

Definition: Anchors firmly dug into place, to a solid ground nobody else believes is there. Mocks and jeers go floating past as you realize the irony that nobody notices you are not swept away by torrents of madness, despair, or tragedy. Strength tempering your bones into something unrecognizable but so much stronger.

Other definitions include: The knowledge that nobody taught you that guides your every move.

The immovable convictions of a country not found in maps, content that you the amateur cartographer that you are will diligently chart it all when you get there.  

Having a song stuck in your head that you’ve never heard before, and believing that the composer is whispering in a language just for the two of you.

Antonyms include: Cynicism, refusal to separate truths from facts braided though they are, uninvested in the definitions given by the compass of your soul. Untethered as a buoy that warns of nothing.

Only faith promises that there is more to the ocean than water; all because of a dream you once had of it taking your sins out to sea and down to Davie Jones and sending back in their place salvation.

– Vagabond Prophet

@mildreflections thanks for joining me on this project! I am beyond pleased to be collaborating with such a talented poet. Hope you enjoy this addition.

Long Hours

Pen long hours in the dust of your memories,

Discern the bones from the dirt

Excavate the traumas and trophies

And see the foundation of your story.

Pen long hours in the grass of your youth,

With quills wearing feathers so dashing

With ink carve away the parts not needed

White page given meaning by its embrace with black.

Pen long hours in the forests of parenthood,

Admire and prune growth so eager

Never embarrassed or furtive

Only looking for a limb to climb.

Pen long hours in the clouds of age

Wrinkled and grey, ready to let go

Aching to rain life down into the dust

The memories of woodland creatures

Awoken by the hopeful magic of petrichor.

When the sun sets on your inkwell

And life has penned long hours on your soul

And you lay in your spiral bound coffin,

Know that a story is never wasted.

– Vagabond Prophet

Cluttered Skies

The light reaches out

Long fingers touching everything.

Hobo tents and bank roofs alike

Both glistening under

Last night’s rain.

Sky still cluttered

With the aftermath.

If the heavens do not discriminate

With their celestial perspective

Maybe we can learn something

Under cluttered skies.

– Vagabond Prophet

Can boldness be regrown?

Dousing dreams in gasoline.

Can I have all the strength of attack

And all the safety of defence?

Or was the armistice

Only ever meant

To leave me disarmed.

Can one have faith

Without first having doubt?

Could I have roots with depth

Beyond my own

Grafted to this timid trunk

To make a steady

Yet brave hero?

Oh let it be true

That this and more

Will come to pass,

A day where the world rests

Squarely on my shoulders

And sits there comfortably

For I’ve been imbued

With your might.

– Vagabond Prophet

Happy Birthday

It’s my birthday today

Though every day is the anniversary

Of something

Today is the anniversary of me,

Of when ink first spilled

On empty pages of my life.

Old enough to know

Youth can’t be given

Only thinned

Like a ring resized

For ever widening fingers.

Young enough to know

Most of the book is yet unwritten,

Many trips around the sun

Not yet spun.

– Vagabond Prophet

Pandora’s Box

‘I am pandora’s box

Devil’s got the key

Opens as he pleases

To take control of me.’

This is the way I thought

Before my heart was bought

Taming every vein

Purifying acid rain.

What a miracle you’ve wrought

In blood spilled for prices paid

Your mercy magnified

By wrath that you have stayed.

The justice undiluted

For my behalf you have disputed

Saving me from hellish jaws

And circling vultures hungry caws.

– Vagabond Prophet

vagabondprophet:

Balsa Wood

If I could remake you

Out of balsa wood

Would I?

You’d be lighter

Yet strong,

Easily take flight.

The wind would push

Against your wings

And caress your face.

Ascension, descension,

Thrown by the carelessness

Of the air and the sky.

Letting every splinter

Alter your course,

Dancing on the map.

Would you even return,

Fight the current

To come back to me.

I see you in the flesh

And swear

You’re something better

Could I set you free?

Free of the land

And free of me.

Knots and imperfections

Same as now,

But you would fly.

You belong

High above me,

A distant speck.

I can’t make this choice

I’m selfish in my love,

What say You?

Wind filled wingspan?

Or me, simply me,

Pink tongue, white teeth.

I’ll be yours

To hold and kiss,

To wriggle against.

I know it’s a poor choice.

I’ve always ruffled

One too many feathers.

So which is it?

The clouds,

Cotton and dewy.

Or me, simply me

I’ll hold you close

And love you tenderly.

If you wish

I’ll remake you

Out of balsa wood

But know that if

The gale proves too much,

You may return to me

I’d make you safe again

Peeling back every ring

Of that lovely balsa wood.

– Vagabond Prophet