Sunday, August 14, 2011


Poetry speaks to me deeply. Honestly, I love sketches of something...a verbal picture that points my emotions in a certain direction. I used to write more of it. Here's a poem from the Freedom Tour portion of Miles to Cross:

last twilight
walking on a path deserted,
my eyes dazzled by the contrast
between silhouette
and light faded,
so that when I glanced along the darkened path
the shapes and vague movements ghostlike
were unreal
images cast from older days:
a country lad’s daydreams,
of a more innocent age.
The songs of locust blanketed me
wave after wave; I heard
hoof-clops of a rider returning
from a general store supply run, perhaps,
and I imagined,
giddy, like a school-girl after her love’s kindness,
fireflies, and a soft harmonica playing on
the edge of memory.

it was a helicopter,
not a firefly,
and I realized that the hum of harp
was the toll road speeding cars at breakneck
speeds toward

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