Hawk Circle
Out of these living scars, we are born anew, and borne up upon these ancient winds.
Wednesday, June 20, 2018
Across Inconstant Breath
Would that this skin
this frail armor
atop the husk of
slow departure -
Would that it held
against the teeth
of night's maw
against the sharp
ache of claws
drawn down across
inconstant breath,
shivered tissue
awash in the sweat
of fear
Doubting the wisdoms
of the light world
augering ever deeper
into the droning
tones of our
voices repeating
that our ends will
not be the ends of us
Our dreams will not
explode like champagne
flutes against dark marble
as we disappear into
places beyond this globe
Shadows grasp and call
telling us the lies within
our hopes will soon enough
shine, soon enouogh gleam
as the sword we have always
felt at the nape of our
necks falls, and we are
made true at last,
finally honest in our
surrender and dissolution
By Patrick M. Tracy
The Narrow and Brambled Path
By Patrick M. Tracy
I have stood
at the edge of the bright plain
looking down
across the good, cleared land
and again
I have shown those fields my back
the gloom
of the wood falling upon me
the dappled sun and shattered sky
the low chorus of trees
the stillness
of the lonely path before me
and every step
breaks faith with something
leaving all promises undone
all ties unbound
but these
are the wages and cost of the journey
of the beautiful silence
of the broken.
I have stood
at the edge of the bright plain
looking down
across the good, cleared land
and again
I have shown those fields my back
the gloom
of the wood falling upon me
the dappled sun and shattered sky
the low chorus of trees
the stillness
of the lonely path before me
and every step
breaks faith with something
leaving all promises undone
all ties unbound
but these
are the wages and cost of the journey
of the beautiful silence
of the broken.
Tuesday, June 19, 2018
Mortal Projectile Falls
These sweet oblivions
turn sour soon enough
All forevers going far
outside the colored lines
All grasping hopes doomed
to slip across our palms
The vision through the funhouse
mirror almost accurate to the twist
The slew of all our hopes
bending back and darker
The spiral breaking
the limits of us sprung
Hurtling further and stranger
our targets moving windward
Aspirations turning to regrets
as our mortal projectile falls
Predictable as mathematics into
the bosom of the burying ground
Less than half completed
far more than mostly broken
And perhaps proud of some small
triumphs we hold like talismans
Against what bitter eons of night
we may yet turn and witness
By Patrick M. Tracy
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Across Inconstant Breath
Would that this skin this frail armor atop the husk of slow departure - Would that it held against the teeth of night's maw a...
-
(in honor of the apparently, partially visible periods I use to alter spacing) The suggestions of gravity ...... Are sometimes taken and... ...
-
A Haibun Midwinter birds have grown loud and churlish in the bush behind the old man’s house, arguing in their way, aware that the chill is ...
-
Autumn-bright day, the sky chalky blue, the colors of the leaves still clinging to the trees now faded to a deep red, but still vibrant agai...