The Race

Yes, I've read this morning's paper,

but no, it doesn't bring me comfort;

the whole world wants me moving

to a beat I can't keep up with.

Now the steps I follow daily,

well they move so very swiftly.

The quickening of paces

leaves me breathless, weak and dumb.

So I channel hop each evening,

and I let my eyes go roaming,

over pages, my fingers run

and my mind paces in circles;

But my body seldom reaches

all the targets that I set it;

The race has long been forfeit,

and and I'm resigned to defeat.

Now the bodies rushing past me

look so stern in their conviction;

they're heading onward, further

better places there await.

So I'll let my vessels thicken,

let the blood trickle in slower,

and languish here, for now, among

the sheets I can't fall out of.

I've not read tomorrow's paper,

though I doubt it'd bring much comfort,

I can hear the bugle calling 

me to step into the streets.

But for now I have my comforts,

my angels and my demons;

My tired eyes are closing 

and  the sunlight is quite warm.

the Hiker

Off the road the path turns brown
and all the leaves have been blown
from the trees, the whistling of birds
in the murky evening bloom

Stepping through the wooden archway,
footsteps muffled by fine petal powder
the royal blue curtain hangs low
over dark majestic hillside, and flowers

The wind blows through the woollen overcoat
your mother bought last Christmas
the cold slides up your chest, cautious
like a lover's hand in burning darkness

Those tentative steps on iron cold rock
lingering looks into the valley below
tepid hand wrapped tight in the other
the movement slow and taught and crisp

Up the side in bluest dark under bright
fluorescent sky and dusty stars still milk
and honey pouring over your bare face
lilting songbirds rasp and chew the ear

All wind and sky now poised to fall
on your face like the ice cold shower
you had last night as your pictured
your lover beside you in your struggle.

The blessed mound you stride to conquer
Climbing slowly like a fingertip reaching
for the most sensual and powerful
of all God's mountaintops.

At last the black subsides and all is stars
crouching behind the musty clouds they cry
out in proud applause at your triumph
burning beauty is all in the tears in your eyes

The blackest valley teems with earthy pleasure
and noise and scents corrupt the air
with utterly human stenches
and the sky curls up, and dreams of moonlight.