Beyond The Red Door
I know not what waits
beyond the red door.
Could it be a haunted house
with ghosts galore,
or a gore splattered mess?
I really must confess
my curiosity was piqued
by a picture on the internet.
I wouldn't open
the red door on a bet!
BLAZING AND BREATHLESS
"Bringing In the Sheaves" and "Old Rugged Cross."
Loud voices praising The Lord boomed through the church.
Altar strung with garland and Christmas lights.
Zion seemed so far away across miles of snow covered fields.
I tracked the progress of birds outside frosted windows,
Nipping and pecking at seeds and suet,
Grim, determined to survive the impending blizzard.
After the choirs offering,
Needing no introduction,
Deacon Brother Paul began a slow walk to the pulpit.
Blazing and breathless,
Red faced and ready to wrestle daemons,
Endlessly he beseeched our attention.
A lawless, soulless bunch were we,
Taking the Lord and our fellow man for granted.
Heedless of his righteous wrath,
Lazy snowflakes began to fall,
Easing down from the heavens.
Suet forgotten, the birds flew,
Somehow, I wished to do the same.
Blues Number 22
Gray blue seas of flax
surround tree trunks black;
disturbed rolling plains
driven by summer rains.
Tender stalks bend,
some the winds rend
when they roar like trains
driven by summer rains.
Farm fields on both sides,
arrow strait blacktop divides
this land of flax and grains
driven by summer rains.
Boise Cascade
Water boils past the power plant,
in angry green foamed geysers,
then barrels along downstream.
Onward by the little brick library,
into the hungry mill yard it rolls.
Water boils past the power plant.
Pulpwood and paper machines
mix with pure raging river water
in angry green foamed geysers.
Progress rolls and squeezes
fibers, water, poisons together,
then barrels along downstream.
Books
Somewhere in my collection
is the book I search for,
a book with the answer
to life.
If I hired a librarian,
just the right combination
of brains and looks,
a "don't mess with me attitude,"
glasses and a bun
with a pencil stuck in,
I doubt she could find it.
Bookcases filled,
end and coffee tables stacked,
authors, famous, infamous,
and off the street,
contributed to volumes
of lore.
2000 books, maybe more.
The postman came around today,
delivered a book of poems,
from a disabled veteran,
which will occupy my evening,
with tales of deeds,
war, blood and tears,
in a far off land.
When I am done reading
his tales of flying free,
and contemplate
how his life ties to me,
I shall place it
in a stack
and move on.
I still search.
Boomerang
An abandon echo
never reaching ears,
away we go.
Crumbling like tears,
slipping art deco
is ravaged by years.
Life is an isolated valley,
our blind alley.
Moss slowly grows,
birds and bats call
bathed in moon's glow
needing no reason at all.
We wait here below.
Reviled bugs, we crawl.
One way boomerang,
our death dirge sang.
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