They were Meriwether Lewis and William Clark,
Her name was Sacagawea.
On an expedition they did embark
Finding the passage to the sea.
Down the Missouri they traveled,
Then slithered 'round the Snake River bend.
Rocky Mountain weather and sickness battled;
At the Columbia River they'd end.
©2013 Honestly JT
She's highly sophisticated and full of undefiled wisdom
Yet a crowned Duchess in a paradise kingdom
Quite a beautiful angel flying with black wings
Covered in gold jewelry and precious things
She dresses like the women of ancient Egyptian class
Her wealth is generous and her money grows like grass
She loves orange scented candles with dark room flame
She rules thirty legions of soldiers and Bune is her name
Her comely warrior voice can wake and relocate the dead
Her armies of soldiers gather around the cemetery
She is brave and deserves a princessly crown on her head
Her facility of speech and flair for words is legendary
A beautiful queen to be treated with respect and honor
Instead of blasphemy,wanton abuse and fictional horror
Alas there is no more confusion,
finally found my last conclusion.
Expect me as if Jesus will return,
from a ghost to a realm of concern.
Your dreams are portals like doors,
welcoming spirits into hasten wars.
Leaving the thoughts without trust,
keeping your fears in much disgust.
And though you sought no consequence,
deeds that confirm a wicked malevolence.
Awaiting in your nightmare of screams,
enjoy what is left amongst your dreams.
I see a meadow,
Simple and plain,
But it speaks to me,
And it speaks of the fallen men,
And all its seen slain.
Flowers bloom at its edge,
Seems of a comforting place,
But it spoke to me,
It spoke of the war,
Man to man, race to race,
From its edges to beyond the ever far.
Only green, green grass,
But I can see it now,
Red blood upon the field,
And the courage the men must wield.
I can hear the shouts,
From the broken meadow,
From all it has seen,
It shall never forget,
What it must clean.
Blood soaked meadow,
Bodies beneath the earth,
Where war was once fought,
Is now a place of mirth.
No one knows,
Only the meadow and I,
Of the many horrid things,
That took place that day.
I look below me,
For the fallen and dead,
As the tears beckon my sleeve.
As lonely as it may seem,
And the beauty it now holds,
We know the truth,
So I sit, and never move,
As the rest of its story unfolds.
I can see it all,
I shall never forget.
Another shall pass,
To see a meadow,
Simple and plain,
And I will rise,
To tell them of those who had been slain.
Might this be a wonder,
Might this be a sunder,
Might this be the blocker,
Might this be the warder,
Might there be a plunder,
Might it pass the border,
Might there be a dweller,
Might they be lodgers,
Should they be squatters,
Should they be trespassers...
Might they squander,
Might it scatter,
Might this be a sputter,
Might there be a clutter,
Moght there be to many clusters,
Might this be the controller
Mightit get power...?
Might these be handlers,
Might these be forcers,
Might these be the squashers,
Might these be the breakers,
Breaking some of the order...
Might this be a night,
Going to a wretched midnight,
Coming from a raging twilight,
Until these be ended, throughout nighttime,
Later waking from our bedtime,
Maybe dying to see the morning light,
Might this be happening tonight...?
Might there be a knight,
Might there be a fight,
Waiting for a shining might,
Coming from some rainbow's light,
coming slight from the nighttime,
With some waiting for their fly...
Might these fight the ghouls,
Might they get to their goal,
Might this vanish some ghosts,
Whom want all of our souls...
Might this be other things,
Might these be the lives of life,
With some asking, might these be I...?
I do not know?
Its the way the breeze whispers
across my skin
and the sun caresses
in his warmth
its the way you love me
even when you’re not here
I'd buy Stars And Stripes on Thursdays
To plan Saturday's volksmarch trip.
Vineyards along the Mozel,
On bluffs above castles,
Thru medieval towns;
This Sergeant loved
Drained to my very heart by our slow-paced arrival,
I wander through tasteless decor to the metal arches
Beyond which a future is unfurled.
My bag’s innards are spilled like blood in the Bible
Before the cold gaze of the armed man who marches;
He holds the key to this new world.
The mechanistic arch stands and takes quasi-sentience
Beside passport control, piercing my finely popped
Eardrums with sonic solemnity.
I am refused by technology but stagger forward hence
Into baggage claim where a suitcase pile is propped
Up like a holiday Tetris calamity.
My suitcase is soul black and with difficulty is found,
In its lucid eagerness to fasten itself a faux family;
Airports are filled with pretences.
Now we are away again, small trolley safe and sound,
On the road from snow, heat is where I plan to be.
Our intrepid journey commences...
An Orchid in the forest, shoots forth.
All things, all things will grow as they should.
And so the time, the time becomes the thing.
The measure of all that we might know to
what we might become.
Emblem and symbol always pale
when compared to the lotus fully formed.
Every warlord passed has dropped to knee
when survival brings them to
a fresh bloom of life. ~TH~
(a spontaneous poem inspired by an illustration by Ryan Heshka. http://wrongwaywriteway.com)
Embattled Forest –
Springtime stabs and bleeds upon wooden helmets,
Thawing stolid firs that are locked in columns
Drowning down the mountainside, killing saplings.
Rooted in darkness.
A bird dips into an updraft
and thinks he knows the world
tranquil cause gurgles through silent valleys
around the earth
refracted through the wind
The creature soars ever higher
in great swoops and dives
the horizon curves as it eludes vision
and the stars pulse their siren
but thrill denies
and adrenaline overrules
their ambient warning
Gust to gust each fades quicker than the last
whispers carry the weight of wings
and their soulful song breaches sanity
prayers of rightful good
where petty purple banners
crest twinkling hearts
The last thermal ridden
the last lyric dies
as flight’s drone fades
upturned wings alone
the sky empty oblivion
as the sun aligns its beady eye
to the looping path of the bird
Two brittle forms grapple in the light
which blots out the senses
protecting what can never be touched
smites the naive bird
an archangel buried
in a crypt which lies six feet deep.