Terminal Poems

The Terminal at Springs

It was four am when I entered Colorado Springs Airport. Darkness of the sky was kissing the lips on the face of the mountain. Right around sunrise after I had my morning cappuccino I saw the sight that would speak to my mind and heart. The words came from Pikes Peak. The mountain was red and looked like the flesh of my Red ancestors. A cloud was coming from the mountain in a grey color. I kept thinking of Chief Red Cloud and Chief Crazy Horse on how they lived and wondered what the last thoughts they had before entering into the spirit world. No rain was there, and it would not be until the plane would leave for me to travel to Atlanta and then to the Old World. 
I could hear the mountain speaking to my spirit. I was in awe, but in fear of my life. I was making a change that would affect me for the rest of my life. I heard music in the background that I would later come to know as Novis by Santana and Placido Domingo. 
After seeing the photo of my plane taking off from my mom, I realized that this plane was the missile (mi-sigh-al) that would change my spirit. It sure did as I am now a world traveler. I have not fear of the air.

Terminal Gate

Frightening silence pervaded 
Swelling of ground here and there
A tree adjacent the gate with a GHOSTLY stature
Unfurling a dark blanket by its broad canopy
Even birds don’t like to perch in the GODFORSAKEN place.
Except the bulging- eyed owl
A silent witness for GRIEF-STRICKEN hearts
The fibre art of GOSSAMER aglow in the sunlight
Floating gently like sailcloth 
On the gates, they’re like murals of pinwheel flowers. 
No gusts or downpours can annihilate it.
The gates are half-shut.
When they are fully opened,
Macabre music of GROANING erupts from the coarsened hinges. 
Scent of geosmin from a freshly dug GRAVE
The tired soul along with the retired corpse 
Comes again through the terminal gate.

Terminal Analysis

No matter the subject or topic
tho' it may burn will I ever learn
would it hurt if my lips were to close
as whatever I submit suggest propose
she will be myopic
nay-say gainsay contradict oppose
may as well hold my breath
as every word I utter
receives the kiss of death
and melts in my mouth like butter
should I assert it's what she does it's her wont
'No I don't,' is her depiction
in contentious rebuttal
thereby confirming my conviction
and morning noon and night
she'd like to be I'll also mention
tho' none too subtle
the epicentre of my attention
is it a female thing or only her compulsion
for at the end of the day
it's not the last word she wants
it's the final say

just another bozo at the bus terminal

fearful he rose from the ashes of hellfire
singed skin scorched soul and blistered mind
his heart full of charcoal burdened the flight
yet carbon cinder fuelled an escape route 
from the trajectory of death or eternal damnation

when a tiny glimpse of ember cast hope
of renewal change growth and survival
he gave in to the vital force of the universe 
and embarked on a miraculous journey
imbued by restoration gratitude and love

The Ways and Means of Death

I'm just stepping out of line.
I've missed my time to shine,
But don't mourn me;
My soul will soon run free.

Preparing for the long goodbye,
Few know when or why.
Accepting what they can't deny;
In the silence, I hear them cry.

Others are taken by surprise;
Love ones left with only whys.
Hearts and lives suddenly broken.
No goodbyes ever spoken.

When the body ages by and by
And all you do is wait to die,
Life loses its appeal 
And the Great Mystery is real.

Life is a play of many acts.
The stage is set and life reacts.
We all must take that final bow;
Only time will tell exactly how.

The End

Live, Die, repeat

Live, die, repeat!


Live, die, repeat!
Live, die, repeat!
Listen to these words from me,
Bitter,
not sweet.
Live,
Die,
Repeat!

In the realms of my world,
it's live,
die,
repeat!
Every time I live it,
it's like I go to sleep.
Especially at the end,
where I hear a final beat,
I can't help being terminal,
we all have an ending,
some subliminal.

Mine's written in the proverbs,
like it's proverbial,
Non-profitable,
non-livable.
Though I live it now,
and will till I fall and crumble,
Crash and stumble,
forward tumble.

Through the chaos and the pain,
I stand tall,
In this cycle of life,
I give it my all.
With every breath,
I fight,
I strive,
In this d 'n' b rhythm,
I stay alive.

In the realms of my world,
it's live,
die, repeat!
Every time I live it,
it's like I go to sleep.
Especially at the end,
where I hear a final beat,
I can't help being terminal,
we all have an ending,
some subliminal.

Live, die, repeat!
Live, die, repeat!
In this d 'n' b anthem,
I find my beat.
Live,
Die,
repeat!

Art of God

She is outstanding
She is my mind's understanding
Blinded by her smiles, I need remanding
For her my heart, is so demanding
I feel like an aircraft, who's never landing

I think I loved her before I knew her
Grasses grew on the heart that was bare
She brightens up my day, she's such a flair
So I am devoted, I mean I belong to her

Her eyes sparkles like chandeliers
Face twinkles, like diamond jewels
Heart's so pure like sterilized bangles

If beauty was a crime, she would be the most wanted criminal
And if my love for her was to be measured, I swear it wouldn't be minimal
I love her with my all, wholly and there isn't no decimal
My heart is full and she is my heart's terminal 

Thank God for her
I am blessed with her
And I will fight for her
For that reason I call her....
The Art of God

New Haven Terminal

Across the track, a rail yard worker
big innocent bear of a guy, beer
belly, embraces his girl. She’s
a conductor, comes up to that belly,
reaches arms not quite around
his back. They separate and embrace
three times while the train prepares
for departure.
                           Across the aisle,
a mother and son. Lights out, change engines,
they play Mercy. Squeeze fingers until one
cries mercy. The son still too small
to seriously challenge his young, athletic
mom. Ask and answer questions, laugh
and cry mercy, she draws and he colors
the features.
                         Unless a society
expects its fate to be better than its past,
it will strive to make its present
immutable as possible. 
Optimism is a way of exploring failure.
It says there is no law of nature
or supernatural decree preventing progress. 
Nearly all failures, and all successes, are in
our future.

At the Terminal

with the sun setting, 
dusk darkens the ground below
and vistas fade out~
days flee like defeated youth
as we tread slow to our grave

Terminal

Rushing to a destination,
puffing, looking down, and at a run.

Joyful, taking all the sights in,
eyes peeled, looking up, and having fun.

Tuning out the ones around them,
detached, in distant conversations.

In the moment, always present,
completely lacking consternation.

Terminal is our condition:
adventure or an imposition?

Some are simply passing through here,
traveling with somewhere else in mind.

Those embracing life as journey:
always home in every place they find.

Terminal Frost

The ground is hard 
from last night's snow
all creation has frozen, 
slick ice from a day of infernal sun

Twilight has bled away to pitch-black onyx 
All indigo n aquamarine burnt away, clean

The plane is baron washed of humanities plan
only desolate structures of arcane device stand.

Traces of nothing...nothing is left 
the terminal frost digs 
deep into exposed skin. 
The cloak flaps absolutely in the wind. 

Time is out of sync, out of place. 
What have we done? 
Where is everyone's everything? 
NOWHERE begun?

Terminal frost burns in my sight
My thoughts 
my fingers tips, 
dim stars, 
sinister moon 

only dark eternal twilight
in everlasting terminal frost…

lingers in my sight
standing in the darkest of nights...

Terminal Reef

Like water…
fear seeks its own level
Rich or poor
it wades through our consciousness
Driving us inward
toward sirens of darkness
Shrilling the moment
—with lyres of doubt 

(Hereford Inlet: December, 2021)

Born Terminal

Born terminal 
Ashes to ashes dust to dust 
Death will ultimately come to us 
Here today and hopeful tomorrow 
The end comes quick then overcome by sorrow 
One day it will arrive for each one of us 
The death you see is a terminal must 
When we're born, we begin to die 
We can't avoid death regardless of what's tried 
Do you ever think of death in a severe way 
Regardless of much, you wish to stay 
Ever imagine what life would be without you 
The Reaper will come irrespective of who 
Death is a discarded thought in time 
Buried thoughts so deep in your mind 
Some go early, and some go late 
Most of us wish we could pick the date 
It saddens me that life is so short and so quick to pass 
But regardless of my thoughts, life's time is fast 
So enjoy the short time we have here on earth 
Try to enjoy your life for what it's worth 
Smile and sing and enjoy each day 
Forgive and forget hold anger at bay 
Hug your loved ones and treat them with kindness 
Your time on earth is far from timeless 
Always keep this thought in mind 
You'll never outlast the word called TIME.

Copyright © William Pickard

Terminal Anxiety

travelers waiting
busy terminal buzzes
loud piped in music
occasional temper flares
late departure time announced


written June 8, 2021

Terminal Time

Eyes lose their way
in the neon and the numbers.
Departing, arriving,
surviving.
Does this arrow go west?
Failing that test.

Airports numb him
he discombobulates,
has to mentally unpack his baggage,
put them all back together again
pat his passport ten times, find a restroom,
discover he is turned around.
He papers over the missing words 
on his missing papers.
Changing planes, mid-flight fright,
rushing between
one panic station and the next.
Finding the right desk beyond the lights.
The sweat of forgetting telephone numbers.

Where is the country he looks for
in the teaming traffic?
The forest road to his new home
is paved with lost directions.
Will he be able to translate language and time 
when he gets there
a ‘there’ still way beyond 
the gleaming maze of now?

Maps and choices
adrift now in the back of his mind.
He sits for a moment
among strangers in a strange place,
imagines calmly passing through customs,
his suit is not crumpled,
he arrives breathing normally
a calm well-seasoned traveler
walks almost confidently
out of a hazy terminal chaos.

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