The 49er arrives with the virgin sunrise.
but the golden veins have long ago dried.
Pick axe in hand Dynomite in his good eye.
He's the only one left of the callused kind.
Back in spring Blackjack the burro broke free
bolting for the last watering hole
licking the salt from his reigns.
Deeper and deeper the miner burrows in.
It's all about double blind commitment now.
The poison of pride over the succulence of time-
Willowy faith over the slag of good reason-
The gristle of isolation over nectar of companionship.
At the very edge of the dimming lamp light
the black snake has tapped the vein dry.
A dusty angel sips the last of the moonshine.
The 49er rolls two stones over two black holes
that once were hazel stars on the rise.
Strange how everything evolves except love
it just comes in one sweet-fleeting flavor-
Hate and destruction have evolved
We went from clubs, bow and arrow
to a fetish for nuclear diseases.
If love had evolved
missiles would forever sleep in their rattlesnake dens
we'd have repurposed howitzers to flower gardens
black words would reverse course
before having intercourse with hate and death
but we're a harsh species an eight eyed tumor on fire
-a species on the
precipice of mass extinction
Many are wants -demands -desires
instant gratification at our soft fingertips
patience and empathy once callused into the psyche
are now an annoyance
an open wound on the genitalia of ego
a sterile afterthought
Strange how everything evolves except love
it comes in just one sweet-fleeting flavor
Hate has evolved
Rape-Beheadings have become blasé
bloody brooks and streams and wounded knees
poison clouds and plutonium ponds
Jesus can't come soon enough.
Sure as stars shined she stumbled.
Falling.
A fierce lightning rod flickering
wild sparks.
Put the appetite front and center.
Boss map.
Hard hands callused to the bone,
dialed in.
There’s nothing lucky about it.
She fought.
Beneath a callused skin of light
the hunched and mustered
clap a prayer between a leaking sight.
It is the earth that mourns itself,
whether baldly thrown or loamy laid
the silent soil repaints its sullied shrouds
far beyond any atoning sorrow,
or cooling heart.
It is none but a laboring pity
to lay down the past
as deep as a weeping sky allows
or raise a hand only to tamp down
a new-turned mound.
Restless are the skewing worms
ever churning a blood-born mud,
eyeless they cover the once begotten,
cloak a hard pressed present and loss.
as the missing
deafly retreat beyond our ken.
Hear now the trilling birds,
how they far-fling their buoyant hymns,
see how they hop between their own bones.
the air reeks of stale coffee and ink-stamped lies,
judges sit like smug kings,
smirking over lives they'll never live,
dismissing truth with a gavel's cough.
innocent men shuffle like cattle,
faces drawn, hands calloused from the grind—
plead guilty or rot waiting.
'justice, ' they call it,
while the lawyers get fat off their despair.
the court stenographer types it all up,
the lies, the twisted logic,
and the perjury sworn like gospel
under a fluorescent crucifix.
if you or I did what they do,
we'd be cuffed and carted off,
but they wear robes like armor,
cloaked in immunity,
proud in their manipulation,
gods of small, dirty kingdoms.
good men shrink in fear,
their courage ground down
by the grinding stone of this machine—
truth doesn't pay,
honor doesn't sell,
and doing the right thing
is the fastest way to lose.
Hillsborough,
where the guilty are freed
and the innocent are crushed,
where justice is just another game
rigged from the start,
Callused, without a true heart.
His once smooth, light, tender hands
Now callused, rough and worn.
The veins that once were hidden now
Protrude as purple strands.
Baby skin, now savage wounds
Display how much they’ve aged
And scars with skin worn thin
Leave no beauty left to swoon.
Oh, the stories in his hands
Through years of serving show
How toil, work and suffering
Are engraved in wrinkled spans.
They are the final testament
Where blood once flowed
Whence seed was sown
And piercing oh so evident.
Beyond the seen are other scenes
Unseen by broken hands.
Hands that healed the ones he loved
At his expense, repaid all liens.
Born acquainted with grief and loss
He willingly gave his all.
Driven by love for all mankind
Left His hands upon a cross.
The scene you render, serene and sublime,
Awakens a longing, untouched by time.
Symbolic and sweet, your desires so true,
My soul aches for the soft touch of you.
Perchance an angel from realms above,
Sent to restore my faith in love.
Yet here lies a cold, callused heart,
Memories of love, a soul torn apart.
Love’s sweet whispers, once graced my ear,
But shadows fell and hearts did sear.
Betrayed by love, left in despair,
Now haunted by memories, heartache to bear.
Once-cherished dreams, now ghostly veils,
Love’s promises, like ships that sail.
Adrift in sorrow, hearts washed astray,
Your guiding light, shores of a new day.
Your ethereal beauty shines so bright,
My heart, an empty cavern, devoid of light,
Perhaps a candle to illuminate these dark halls,
Your tenderness and compassion enthralls.
All I yearn is to be wanted and desired,
To be seen once more, cherished and admired.
In this cold, lonely world, I’m utterly alone,
Longing for a warm embrace, to feel at home.
With you, perchance, I shall find my place,
Restored by your boundless love and grace.
No more to wander, no more to roam,
In each other’s arms, we find our home.
Oh! Angel that brought my sight to the light of this world
How can I express my sorrow seeing you torn to pieces?
How can I catch the bullets that hit every strand of your vein
I haven't expressed much my love for you except in silence
If only I could break free from the grip of my shackles
Then every tick of my clock is a moment spent with you
But I'm just a poor soul with a weight to carry
Like mountains upon my callused shoulders
I could not even lift the weight of my own feet
And against the gust of storm I almost fall everytime
Afraid to make a promise of sunrise
For today could be my last sunset
February 24, 2024, PST, BC
Into the dark corners of desire,
long left standing upon
the un-swept floor of secret yearning
have I strived to press your memory away.
Which over time of endless days
and with a heart now callused
by the emptiness of self deceit,
have I sought that you should
vanish from my mind
and torment me no longer.
For I long to love again.
But all effort is vain,
for in the weakness of quiet moments
my strength and will are nothing
as the softness of your beauty rises
upon wings of fire, illuminating
every inner passion… and I burn.
And you become as if real before me,
and in the cloak of moonlit night
I tremble at the vision of your eyes before me.
I gasp in shallow breath as the dream
of your lips touch softly upon my skin
and I am helpless… and I am yours.
Knowing that when I wake, I shall rise alone
and in pointless effort walk into the sunrise
of yet another day wherein…
I shall strive to forget.
The day you passed
Empty is my heart, full is my mind: filled with what ifs the Shoulda Woulda could have been. Cold nights now, no longer enthralled by your raw essence saltiness after shave and metal. Just thinking of it sends Shivers up my spine, and drives me mental.
The shenanigans twinkling in your eye, the shape of your lip as it traces on my thigh the touch of your hand caressing my shape and back up again.
Sensing your breath upon my neck, callused but soft are your hands, as a mere whimper escapes my mouth.
Now all I see is your death and not your member or our sex.
Your pecs Where it connects to your chest the place I would lay my head and rest there’ your gunshot wound.
In that spot as I lay listening to the pounding feeling you throbbing harder.
Now thoughts of unpleasant thoughts, atrium cardias to rigamortis spooning on me in our bed.
Nighta full of Terror and torture I'm now a mourners with PTSD and anxiety disorder.
after Ho Chi Minh
I
The stone basin holds
still water. The still water
drinks the arid sponge
as rays of pure energy
slake their thirst on
the ebon wings of crows
II
Yangtze flows from widows peak
pooling briefly in the lock
of a tired eye. Dirt
and salt cry brackish tears
before leaping from sallow chin,
like rain from languid boughs
III
Frogs turn dirges beyond
translucent glass, their croaks
fold and crease the air
putting dusk on the shelf.
Aphids eat the pithy stalks
and drown in sudden morning dew.
IV
No callused hand washes
in the same basin twice
V
The kettle boils, pallid
phantoms push through iron
walls. Prescient tea leaves show
time’s current—fish swim
upstream. Two worlds away,
a young girl draws a bath.
VI
Forehead donning liquid rosaries,
each dawn anoints a king anew
Each afternoon, grains of rice
cling to one another, fulfilled.
Ink spills quickly each evening,
the white page laps at pitch waters.
VII
Eleemosynary sunlight burns
through the keyhole, tumblers
click in the lock. The stone basin
is once again filled with still water.
The volcano leveled
then a great wind blew the rest away.
Early humans came late.
They had callused soles and rough hands
they knew how to dig,
run and hide.
When the flood came
they were at ease feasting on stringy meat and bones
in the makeshift camps of their tribes.
The locust eating priests
declared it was everyone's fault
but theirs.
Contrite, and greatly diminished in number
they began to scratch the history of the world
on random stones.
Volcanos grew testy again
smoke and fiery fumes scorched the sky.
They packed up their meager possessions
and trekked. The tribes did not stop walking
until they found a lost scripture in the dust.
Some called the find a bible
written by soothsayers
yet unborn,
but in truth
it was yet another mystical footprint
to follow -
a sign to track
out of this inexplicable land
that kept blowing away
on the shifting sands
of bad times.
[super sonnet]
My folks are from Magilligan, it's said—
a stretch of windy green beside the sea,
where, from the rocky bluffs, a quilt is spread
of emerald grass, where trolls and faeries be.
I almost smell the bracing, salty air
and feel the breath of ocean on my face.
I hear the call of sea birds flying there,
as if to beckon me to find this place.
My ancestors would listen for the sound
of fiddling tunes that carried on a breeze.
A Celtic reel would have them spinning 'round
and toasting Irish beer to take their ease.
And yet I know they worked an endless day
with callused, hearty hands in dauntless toil.
They had the Irish grit to make their way,
and sturdy backs to turn the hardened soil.
While I may never see this Isle of green—
adrift in daydreams, Ireland I have seen.
muffled nails against bars
uncleaned under the surface
stained with crusted lies
dirt built up from shallow promises
bloodied and bitten to the bed
raw from anxiety
unkept
both sides
none of these nails remotely perfect
a destroyed image of the hands
callused scarred, softness hardened up
there was some sort of twisted beauty in it
unsure of whats its attraction
making it so mesmerizing
Wanted
Your Child For One Week
(Vacation Bible School)
By Tom Wright
7/17/2002
Lord,
‘mongst us, send those with fertile minds,
entrust to us, all those with willing hands.
Those not biased, or callused from Satan’s binds,
who will travail, united, as the oceans sands.
Give us hearts, not yet as mid summers clay,
and feet, not reluctant to run and do.
Children who will accept a challenge along the way,
but Lord, mostly, those not yet taught of you.
As servants, empower us to till this fertile ground,
and let our petitions forever be, o’er acorns we have sown.
That on a good foundation, soon mighty oaks be found,
yielding fruit for You as future years have grown.
Finally, aged saints, a plaque done at our hand,
a daily reminder from the juniors class, of words adored.
While some who view it may not think it grand,
it shares our witness,
* “But as for me and my house, we will serve the lord.”
Amen
*Joshua 24:14
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