Tuesday, April 28, 2009

nightwave 1

As the mood elevators lift and spread
wings over the night,
rippling sounds in the sky,
a soft story creeps unnoticed into the dimly lit room.
Under the door its feathered fingers slide,
past the bolted lightning rods and
over the age-old picture frames,
my sofa lies in recline,
a fire in its place-contented,
the susurration of paper against paper:

“ In the days of tomorrow stood a tower of sandstone,
winds from the surrounding deserts brought vague messages from other lands,
merging in a babel of mixed emotions;
but here in the baked sun one was all alone,
climbing up their way on the spiral encircling staircase
no guardrails to hold their hands
no mercy but that of conviction
and the shelter of surety.
Standing atop the smooth curving brown surface
staring at the rainbow sands glittering in the thin air,
almost obscuring completely the distant ocean
thirsty but unworthy is the traveller who reaches the heights.

Sitting down, close your eyes,
reach far beneath the base,
to the underground viaducts
and causeways of life,
where Babylon's gardens grow unattended,
wild free along the lines of nature's impeccable order
water trickles through
drops in a once flooded vein
that whispers rather than pulses,
but yet serves the cause of peaceful existence.

Ask a question standing up,
ask it of the four directions,
of the eight gates,
of the sixteen hundred meandering paths lazing their way into the distance,
and your response is thrown back at you,
in shards of clay,
piecing together the archaeologists mystery,
the key to your uncertain future.

You find it hard to quench that desire to
irrigate the lands with the fertile imagination
of human hands, and lives that no one can love easily
to realign the waterways with the pouring ladle
the deep seas that will soothe the parched canals,
but you know that tranquility, and its silent partners
muses of the darkness
seductresses of your spirit
they will vanish, along with this tower,
deep into the recesses of this world
and leave you standing within the lines of brightly-lit
corridors and corporeal trappings.
To face shadows shared by all.

Civilization now stands against the force of the individual.”

Saturday, April 18, 2009

The Ballad of Brellar Bob

Get around the campfire,
settle into them beans,
smell the roast of summer night
As I lay down these here scenes:

“There was a man named Bob,
Middlin' in age, pork-round in girth
He had a glint of the crazies in his eyes,
Rightly be feared due ter his size.

But old Bob, he was meek as a kitten,
Never harmed no fly,
Until one day he was smitten.
He was on his porch thinkin' without blinkin'
'How to bide the post-church afternoon?'
When all of a sudden he was bussin' to Gus's
the gun store of lore as many a toter from miles was drawn to its shine.
Bob, now he warn't no slinger,
No hunter in season, no triggerin' finger,
but the sweet lady of fate had other plans in mind
put him on a one way track, no lookin' behind.
He walked right in, looked about,
Eyes staring dimly, two careless scouts,
Until they found the answer staring them straight,
The twin-barreled ladies named Mabel and Lady Tate.
The shiniest of machine guns, the beast of the lot,
too expensive (and refined) to ever be bought,
two barrels on black-metal frame,
and Bob-- he weren't ever the same.
He stood up stiff, and walked up softly,
the ladies need love, as he told himself oftly,
he bowed a little, uncaring about the rest
stepped up to the challenge, to caress and test.
They say in moments when the angels are happy,
A man gets his day to rejoice and be free.

He saw himself in summer fields
firin' Mabe and 'Tate with unwholesome glee
It was all in slow-motion,
and the birds were packin' to flee;
his lonely heart found peace in this
Beyond the past, loves both hit and miss.

And straight home he galloped
to open the box,
the one with his savings,
in the drawer with his socks;
You can imagine now Gus's surprise
when with a wad of cash
that gun he buys.
'How can ya afford the twins on nothin' and change,
Why not try a single
smooth and long-range?'
Bob stood his ground, didn't hear a word
Gus might well've been conversin'
with his old uncle Bill's bovine herd:

He would only mutter these words o' wisdom
“Twice the guns is twice the funs.”

The rest is history, as they say,
henceforth and more,
and from that day,
The neighbourhood kids would hear the noise
of those guns a-poppin'
and since boys will be boys,
They gave him the name of old ' 'Brellar Bob,'
After the woe-begotten targets
of his gun's lead lobs.
That's right, kids and folks
Umbrellas he shot,
both handles and spokes...
The whole damn lot.

People would talk now and again,
about strange Bob's choice
against which to defend
Some say his ma were struck with a parasol
Others say it brought about his pa's downfall.
Ask him a question and he'd only reply
“Because today ain't Tuesday”
with a smile and a 'Bye.'

And so our story has a happy ending,
the town has it's tale
and Bob time-spending,
but I suggest that one of these days
in the summer sun
and the baling of the hays
take a trip about a mile's hike
to Bob's home turf
past the turnpike
To see a man ever-so satisfied
a man shy in life,
but in play dignified.
See his umbrella-dropping contraption:

hung from a rope on a tree
it would soar to the ground
just in time for his shootin'-spree.
I'll never ferget ol' Bob's line
as he hitched up the counterweight pail,
“If I see'd Mary Poppins
I'd be poppin' her sail.”