I am the warm embrace that breaks the chill,
The steady anchor when the waters rise,
I am the quiet peace that cures your ill,
The golden truth beneath untroubled skies.
I hold your trembling hand against the storm,
I guide your tired steps into the light,
To keep your fragile, weary spirit warm,
And watch you safely through the darkest night.
I am your faithful shield, your closest friend,
The heart that beats in rhythm with your own,
I promise I will guard you to the end,
So you will never have to walk alone.
Step closer now, and let me lock the door—
I am the surgeon, and you are on the floor.
Blue vaults shall over-reach me in the end
When innocent sleep will aid my choosing
To venerate the grass in which I’ll lie
With a poet’s troubled untroubled eye.
Do soothing thoughts these words portend? –
As if choice is of our own perusing
And every love a melted lover’s sigh
Reborn fresh under some new warm-weather sky.
But for today, if only now, pretend
There’ll be no winning if some the losing
Face in the winter welkin by and by,
With souls upturned pure on the day they die.
So blue shall overarch us in the end
When innocent sleep will aid our choosing
To venerate the grass in which we lie
With a poet’s troubled untroubled eye.
A man in a black suit, and cane drawn
wandering above the sea of fog
wildlife, mountains, lakes, and bog
Untroubled Heaven in his eyes for the moment
fields of green, awaken refreshed at dawn
where salmon runs the rivers blue to spawn
where shaggy mane elks labor their spring calves
black-tailed and mule deer birth their newborn
a habitat full of wildlife species that are born
1/5/2019
"UNTROUBLED ON THE COUCH"
the aftermath of morality
6 of the newest poetry to
come from the typer
all me
all you
all of it
a Chicano
listening to the sounds of
the birds and the cracking
of the leaves
the black robe approaches
mouth as sore as a virgin's
the years that have changed
my face get younger and
younger
every woman asks the same of
me but all fail to give
arguments
lies
the bending of truth to
satisfy her fear of being
caught
I've often said I won't make
it to thirty-five and if I
die now on this couch, the
crows would be torn to
pieces.
I'm turning 34 in a few
months
I guess I have a year left
numerous nights passed
where I wondered if I had
lost myself but as the wind
continues to drop dust in my
beer, they've all lost me
here's another piece of
poetry
another life set in stone
this'll be typed and then put
away
my audience hasn't been born
yet and for now I'm stored
away
you've been out for a while
collecting dust from the
filth
I've got my own dust and
someday someone will blow it
off
just like you did to me.
By: Chicano Eddie
9252017
Strolling by slow flowing rivers
Edge, shaded by serene willow
Trees, sweet smells of meadow grasses
birds sing in perfect harmony,
An orchestra, sounds of lapping water,
Gentle Breeze, fluttering leaves, glorious.
27/02/2017.
The river line competition.
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