Like dragon flies
your words fly into my face
a trail of smoke
fills the air
I cannot answer your questions
Dry dirt
shows the cruelty of time
I lie still in the field
I assume you interpret my silence
I am unable to answer
You read my eyes
I fling it all back to you
in my mind. I manage to laugh
The dust flies in my eyes
finds wings and breaths
fire into you. “Get me out of this barren field
you fool!
You roll into the dust
and I am alone
Morning hoofs a trail of smoke,
Horsepower for modern folk,
With eyes slightly open for pay.
Watch others dive in, do backstroke.
A familiar aroma wafted towards me,
As I looked up into blue azure skies,
And far beyond, a golden horizon.
I could barely see the shapes of an old
Man holding a young child’s hand,
The man wore a long white robe
And was smoking a handcrafted
Pipe, and the spiraling smoke from it,
Triggered a memory, who was this man.
He didn’t speak much until
I asked him who the child was, He
Granted us a short encounter
The old man said,
So that you can briefly meet.
Tears rolled down my face
As I took the child
And held him tightly in my arms,
For an everlasting moment, a miracle!
We are your guardian angels he said,
Taking back my bundle of life,
And gradually disappearing with his
Charge, leaving behind a trail of smoke
The aroma of which was distinctly the
Tobacco my father smoked. My father
Holding my child's hand, his grandson
Who died when only five days old,
And whom I had never met,
Celestial beings permitted to appear,
And just as quickly disappear,
Their message I believe, that one day we
Would meet, in the presence of His love
Within the realms of heaven above.
Poem of the Day - 18.9.2021
If you stroll a wild colored garden
Down thin and dappled paths;
Where bluebonnets bloom on Spring’s black floor,
And mockingbirds above are happily singing, see
New limber-legged colts and calves dancing in the sun,
And chartreuse baby leaves pasted to gnarly live oak trees,
While spirals of gnats like tiny dusters move across the land.
Blue brooks rippling and giggling from rain’s both storm and tease.
And then
An infant black cloud blows a shadow across the sand;
Prickly pears burst and bloom one on one like an amoebic flower;
A trail of smoke and smells from a miles away evening kitchen;
Tired working horses and fence mending riders wending home.
It’s Springtime in the State of Texas
She was almost a phantom
90% ghost
10% her
The leftover ashes from the fire
And I wanted to help her
Rekindle her warmth
And help her follow
A trail of smoke to the sky
She has been turned grey
By others who leave her wanting
She leaves me wanting
But I crave hunger
And I know she is unsure
Writing a piano piece for her
Quietly sung fears,
A chorus away from silence.
I’m begging for her to
Stand tall and don’t
Break eye contact
With the mirror
I know she’s damn good at
Building walls around her
But I'm just as good
At tearing them down
I'll bring her back to the living
I'll light a fire for her soul
I'll color inside her lines
And I'll write a melody to her song
And if she’ll let me
I'll climb her walls.
And open her doors
From the inside.
A thin trail of smoke rises from his discarded pipe. A stark shadow falls from his hat brim, as he leans into the beam of light. He clasps his hands together and rests them on the desk top. From behind him you hear the creak of leather shoes, as the wearer shifts his unseen bulk. You imagine what you cannot see under that brim. Piercing, merciless eyes, focussed on you. They measure you, calculating. Wooden groans echo as the stateroom moves with the tide. The hand on your shoulder attempts a reassuring squeeze. Then the Captain clears his throat…
“But the fact remains
time travel limits opportunity.
How?
I hear you ask.
Let us say
the birds sing
and the sun shines,
and your true love
holds your hand.
Well you’d alter time
if you possibly could,
to keep this
cherished love grand.
But you just
may well
put at risk
Destiny’s master plan.
For when this love
did end
you’d earn your reward,
a prize so dear
and sweet.
The understanding
and consuming passion
of a brilliant flame,
who now, you’ll
never meet.”
THE SMOKESTACKS OF AUSCHWITZ
A trail of smoke fades to an autumn dawn
as sounds of morning break unearthly still
arising to the day, some life goes on
while others have the fear it never will.
Some ashes drift about the morning air
appearing as do snowflakes in a stall,
to restless breezes they drift everywhere
and they are spread about before they fall.
Each life that was is slow in pure descent
and longing for the earth that pounds below
the mother of all life, where time is spent,
until time's all run out--it's time to go.
Down in the valley echoes from a train
awhistling here come the dead again.
© Ron Arbuthnot aka ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa
THE SMOKESTACKS OF AUSCHWITZ
A trail of smoke fades to an autumn dawn,
as sounds of morning break unearthly still,
arising to the day, some life goes on,
while others have the fear it never will.
Some ashes drift about the morning air,
appearing as do snowflakes in a stall,
to restless breezes they drift everywhere
and they are spread about before they fall.
Each life that was, is slow in pure descent,
and longing for the earth turning below,
the mother of all life, where time is spent,
until time's all run out--it's time to go.
Down in the valley echoes from a train,
awhistling, here come the dead again.
© ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
THE SMOKESTACKS OF AUSCHWITZ
A trail of smoke fades to an autumn dawn
as sounds of morning break unearthly still
arising to the day, some life goes on
while others have the fear it never will.
Some ashes drift about the morning air
appearing as do snowflakes in a stall,
to restless breezes they drift everywhere
and they are spread about before they fall.
Each life that was is slow in pure descent
and longing for the earth that pounds below
the mother of all life, where time is spent,
until time's all run out--it's time to go.
Down in the valley echoes from a train
awhistling here come the dead again.
ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown PoeT
This Friday, 20 April, is observed as Holocaust Rememberence Day.
THE SMOKESTACKS OF AUSCHWITZ
A trail of smoke fades to an autumn dawn
as sounds of morning break unearthly still
arising to the day, some life goes on
while others have the fear it never will.
Some ashes drift about the morning air
appearing as do snowflakes in a stall,
to restless breezes they drift everywhere
and they are spread about before they fall.
Each life that was is slow in pure descent
and longing for the earth that pounds below
the mother of all life, where time is spent,
until time's all run out--it's time to go.
Down in the valley echoes from a train
awhistling here come the dead again.
The smoke is a question mark...
My view of you is covered in gray
You pause, look back, then walk away
You’ve neglected to open your umbrella…
Tomorrow, under a different sky
I will listen to the songs of yesterday
The world leaves behind a sign language for broken hearts
It is cloudy, it is beginning to rain…
Goodbyes are bitter ales we drank today
I look again, through the smudges of the day
We are going to leave behind a trail of smoke
A sound like a tired mother calling in her child
The train whistle rings in the dusk
I take a last look through the window
I have said my goodbyes
The train begins to move
We are leaving the station platform
Tears weep down the window
Spilling over the imprints of my hand
I found myself dry eyed and my throat too tight to speak
Finding a place to put the carry-ons
People are chatting, settling in
Happy, excited, anxious to be departing
A thin straight lift and a gray, silvery curve
Like a sickle for harvesting the first star…
The smoke is a question mark
___________________________________________
"Write A Backwards Poem"
If the time is right
the solar wind
will come forth
from the sun
Bringing with it blazing heat
and leaving a trail of smoke
and fire
in its wake
We are here for a short
span of time
The sun has exsisted for
billions of years
But will eventually burn out
There are other suns
Other solar systems
We cling to our precarious
situation
While stars are born
and stars die
We must plan
for the future
for generations to come
will face a cold, barren planet
circling a dying star
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