stopping to smoke, a cup of coffee,
maybe a shot to break the chill…
books are only people
waiting to be set free from the shelf…
people are only spider’s webs,
catching tiny fragments of light.
and this body a tired prayer,
spoken by lips both bruised and shaken.
my hand smells too much like alone,
but my feet know the way home!
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shaking the dust
marching onwards to Jericho,a trumpet by my side.living on manna,and the almost forgotten dreamof the promised land.knowing what a man doesis washed away by the rain,and what a man believesis lost in the night.but what a man givesstands like a mountain,season after season,till all becomes still!shaking the dustoff of my feet….tipping my hat,following the crow!
there comes a time
calls for new hands.when the wind we have rode,beckons for new friends.and when the path thatleads to discovery,needs a new body, a new soul.when the battle for justice,calls for new voices.leaves turn brown and fall,and winter snows come.but spring always returns,with new leaves and new song.take what we have given,and build an even bigger fire.spread…
give me an old Rambler Classic,
a double-bitted axe, anda twelve gauge pump…a coupla sleeping bags,and a pretty good tent.a half dozen books, a coffee pot,and an old cook stove…an old Gibson acoustic,and an old Case knife.my old dog, and a womanwith a little color in her soul…and, by God, i’ll find America!
with every breath i take,
the lone figure skating on iceinside the glass globe,falls and cries, for a moment real!the sun has left for unknown parts,and the storm clouds have no conscience.the doe hit by the car,quivers in the ditch,in a bed of empty beer cans,and shattered headlights.the faint dampness on your lips,taunts the half light with tortured madness.i speak…
these hands,
and walked away from allwe knew.these hands,that laid brick,cut wood,plowed gardens,picked up trashbuilt fences for the dogs,held the childrenwhen they were small,held your handsat the hospitalstroked your body,touching forbidden placeswith gentleness andpassionwrote the poetryhidden in your eyesthese hands,now old and calloused,sometimes tremble,sometimes hard as stonethese hands are open,without fear or trepidation,unconditionally openwaiting for yours.
major tornado damage here
foothills last night!up to fifty homes, and/or mobilehomes, damaged, or destroyed.forty degree temps, and a tornado,in January!people left homeless, injured, andlost everything they had… theyneed our prayers, and our help!we take so much for granted… wecomplain about how hard things are…and then you watch your neighborslose it all in an instant…we need to be family,…