The Last Story

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We all know the source. He keeps us two steps ahead of the rest and never shows up empty-handed. We know what’s next and what comes after that. If we look too closely we can see our own end.

We gave everything away to be part of the story we are telling. We live simply, like true scribes. The world around us is our truest muse; it holds the secret to the way our words are shaped. Our stories are the sap of a fresh wound on the bark of humanity. One word, a drop that melts over the surface of consciousness, pulls it, bends it. The source sees to it.

The stories travel to us, often from the strangest places. We laugh as we dissect the pieces, the demeanor, the lies. Chasing these things leads us down corridors that are unfit for the skittish. The power drunk feed on the storied tellers who share their secrets. It is life but not death.

But only until you cannot resist the last story. We know where it all ends, how they will do it. They talk about it openly. We already know how it reads but you want to see it, as if you might change it. The journey calls you away from our mission like the big stories often do but it is not time.

Leave the last story for the end. The source will tell us what we need to know so we can keep our distance from them, just like he always has. We are the blades that hew the bark. We are scribes with work to do. Leave the last story for its time; it will wait until our end.

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Never Look Back

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Her tears are finally drying

Leaving statues of salt behind

Monuments of her memories

Wishes the past to be blind

Hopes for rain to melt the pain

For the tears to reach the sea

The salt crumbles to the earth

So her future can live free

Seeker

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Looking for the pieces, your desire filled

Under every shining, unlikely stone

Behind his eyes in photos obscured

You know it well and what it would mean

But you can only see

The mystery of his becalming words

His pen vexing, words still find you

But his eyes will never tell the tale

Dry ink can never again seep

His calm waters you’ll never float

A velvet tongue you’ll never taste

This one is wild like none you know

A sandstone pillow comforts his sleep

Pottery shards under bare feet

Restless as a gypsy on the run

From nowhere he calls home

Alone, but for one

His loneliness’ blissful friend

Turns her back to let him run

There is only one he will seek

Her golden heart his home to keep

 

The photo is where I grew up.

My Butterfly

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My butterfly is a free one it’s true

I’ve no need with nets for catching

Wings delicate with shocks of blue

Better watch for stunts she’s hatching

 

I’ve no need with nets for catching

Flutters about as if without a care

Better watch for stunts she’s hatching

To capture her lighted, still, so rare

 

Flutters about as if without a care

Wings delicate with shocks of blue

To capture her lighted, still, so rare

My butterfly is a free one it’s true

 

This is the Pantoum poetry form.

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Relics

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If power was the ultimate prize

Allowing growth between lies

All the people content in hives

The leaders may begin to realize

 

What gives to those without it

Their needs don’t mean shit

The hungry made to quietly sit

While the powerful dig a pit

 

There’s coal in those old hills

Let’s burn it and write more bills

To protect the relics and shills

Smut-black smoke always kills

 

I don’t see much political poetry on WordPress, likely since it doesn’t draw a crowd. I would be remiss if I didn’t write this kind of poetry sometimes, especially in the current climate. Political poetry speaks truth to power much like poetry of any other kind, and it also seeks to call out the elected who insist on pulling us back into the past so we can repeat the same mistakes.

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Step

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I stood and watched from the fringes

They were so alive and moving so fast

I saw graceful ladies step in confidence

Men were boys with the wisdom of the old

They danced together in twos and threes

I saw soul mates spinning with abandon

Loners happy just to be in such company

My place on the outside became thorny

With a sense that I might learn to dance

Exist in the company of the dancing-alive

Prosper and thrive with the likes of them

So I took the field as if it were my own

Closed my eyes tight to forget I was alone

As soon as my feet led me on to the pitch

Stepped on the feet of a girl, surely half angel

She never cared that I can’t dance like her

Like one more of the number joining in

In time I found my steps with my pace

A glaring difference in stillness and grace

Wondered how I could have stood there

While life sought me, if only, I would join in

 

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