Sage
• 06/28/21 at 11:57PM •The smell of Sage,
from brush, blue-green;
an aroma, so good,
it can overcome your sense.
The smell of heated wood,
fills the air, as the Sun
beats down, on Sagebrush land.
Retired for many years and now re-discovering some writings, from long ago, along with new endeavor to help save my soul.
The smell of Sage,
from brush, blue-green;
an aroma, so good,
it can overcome your sense.
The smell of heated wood,
fills the air, as the Sun
beats down, on Sagebrush land.
Leaves swirling under tree,
an occasional Hornet,
visiting flowers.
Trying to create words
without inspiration
is as if making a new
kind of aberration.
Grey is the light
of an approaching Dawn.
Dew is the sparkle
on the grassy lawn.
Write all the words,
uncertain they are.
Write them down now,
both near and far
away in this World
and what it must be,
of all the lies,
bordering on idiocy.
Slink back to the shadows,
don't come out into the light.
Stay where you're huddled,
if you don't want to fight.
Lie after lie is the untruth,
which you now see,
but don't except the answers,
for you are crazed like me.
It's a knotty mess
of rope or line.
Don't call it naughty
or a large twine
for it's a rope.
not a fishing line.
Black as night.
Light of day.
Blue of sky
White of clouds.
You've gone away,
To see the World,
A joy to thee,
Recalling memories
Of our history.
There isn't any concept of time,
on any given day,
except to ask of me,
"What are we doing today?"
Where is the beginning?
When will it end?
Must this life go on,
Being a game of let's pretend?
He hopped across the yard.
He was easy to see.
I saw him clearly,
He clearly saw me.
Did he come on a dare,
Or just to antagonize thee?
We'll never know,
For he won't talk for free.
Gone the long nights,
soon the short days,
as day light will be
ours to soon praise.
From whence came love
and a lost love, too,
as the words in my head,
begin the fondest adieu.
I love you more than
words allow me to say
as the shortness of life
passes one more day.
To see you again,
before our time is gone,
is like a drizzle of rain,
and life will continue on.
Please tell me your story
while I tell you mine,
for the thought of your smile
will be those, so divine.
A piece of string,
a length of twine,
a skank of thread,
a woven line.
A stitch or two
a time to bind,
a soul, yours
to
a soul mine.
Fire him now
was said aloud,
without a jury
to prove a guilt.
Why do we rush
towards a judgement day?
There will be more
opportunities to then say,
you have been found guilty
by your select Peers,
based upon facts,
not smoke and mirrors.