pilgrim

Poiema

Tag: Mystery

Prodigal

I haven’t written a poem in four months. I haven’t written a song in four years. This is probably a bit rough, considering how long it’s been, but the lyrics came to me while listening to Shovels and Rope walking back from class. Enjoy, and feel free to critique, post thoughts, or praise. I like praise; administer it liberally.

I’m on a long walk home I don’t want to make,
the heat of the day makin’ my bones quake.
I’m shootin’ looks into every gap and alley
seeing men countin’ days, and every mark and tally
sayin’ I’ve got more steps ahead than I can take.
 
I can’t smell the roses above the compost,
I can’t hear music the way it’s composed.
The sun’s under cover for fear I’ll discover
she’s naked with the moon under silk covers,
hidin’ shame for what she is when she leaves her post.
 
But if for one brief moment I could see the sun
just long enough to let me find someone
who’ll let me know
I’m not alone,
well, maybe it’ll be alright.
 
I’m chasin’ demons off a mountain I never knew was mine;
achin’ for a fence so I can work to pass the time
and secure a destiny that’s been set down from the start.
Damn! This life of ours could be a work of art
once we bathe in the Jordan at Zion’s borderline.
 
Don’t say I didn’t warn you: external peace, internal war.
What you hear in my chest belies the footfalls on the floor:
the steps I take into the door of my childhood home.
It’s the opposite of hell but heaven’s let me roam
until I, the prodigal, returned to knock and enter the door.
 
And if for one brief moment I look the other way,
I’d see a long path and hear somebody say,
“I’ll let you know
you’re not alone.”
Well, baby, it’ll be alright.

The Boreal Wilderness of a Content Heart

We must be further North than we thought.
Where, by the maps haunted with sea serpents,
living, exulting, dancing, tremulous mysteries
hold back laughter beneath every leaf.
 
Like a child playing hide and seek,
biting her tongue not to squeal with delight.
 
The cold grips every nerve in every limb with every movement.
The cold reminds us how gloriously alive we are.
The steam of our breath, twisting in an aerial ballet
leaping deeper, and deeper into this forest,
both new and joyously familiar.
Like a lullaby in old age.
 
The blues and grays of the mist, interrupted.
Swords of sunshine lunging from sky to untrodden earth.
Every leaf, swallow’s song and molecule of mist
 
is alive with silent, jovial anticipation.
Like the last breath before a dive into frigid waters.