There’s The Future?

Yes,

There’s the future:

Take a good long look.

It’s right there before you

Suspended in green, safe ice

While you’re running away,

Tumbling across

Borders of flags,

Trading words for waves,

Three squares

And the promise of fair winds.

A gun is always a gun

But a song can be more powerful.

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Shiftin’ Gear

A little grey

In the heart and beard,

Big rig pilot rides

Whispering thunder across

Lonely sage-and-snow plains:

As always,

Shiftin’ gear,

Pushing calendar promises

And clock’s ransom demands;

Wry smile lights up the face

As the tune chnages

“Pretty woman, plain woman

Tellin’ a lie

Is just a signal

For the sky

To cry.”

 

The Madness Rations

With all the delightfully tempting deliberation

Of the sensuous midnight dance, they

Pour their whiskey’d coffee shadows

Into the urban canyon streets.

Honest-to-God light,

As though, silently screaming,

Seeking to escape upwards.

Leaves from ground level,

Now are the panther-hours,

The time of warm-chocolate promises,

Bitter honeys with secret pillows;

The secret language of  darkened doors:

The madness-rations we take

In order to plead sanity.

 

the Loneliest of Ghosts

 

 

Here, feel the desperate-sad,

Ready-to-expire character

Surrounding the deserted,

Edge of mid-town buildings;

The ones avoided by rats

And shunned by even

The loneliest of ghosts.

Here, glimpse the eyeless,

Broken-pained windows

That briefly grasp at  skypieces

But fail to hold their interest.

Holes where slates once held

A certain vertigo-sway,

Injured-bone joists,

White tumbled bricks,

Floor without full boards,

Webs without cobs …

Stairs without risers.

There’s nothing here –

Neither arch nor fair, and

I cannot say there ever was,

Being stranger here myself,

With doors to lock,

Promises to keep

And ways to make.

Arctic Star

The sun doesn’t rise here, or

Else will never set at all; there is

No security in night’s blankets

Where there is no sanctuary

And every breath is hard-won.

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Stopping By Woods …

Whose woods these are I think I know.  

His house is in the village though;  

He will not see me stopping here  

To watch his woods fill up with snow.  

My little horse must think it queer  

To stop without a farmhouse near  

Between the woods and frozen lake  

The darkest evening of the year.  

He gives his harness bells a shake  

To ask if there is some mistake.  

The only other sound’s the sweep  

Of easy wind and downy flake.  

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.  

But I have promises to keep,  

And miles to go before I sleep,  

And miles to go before I sleep.

 

Robert Frost (1874 – 1963)