Empath – Part One

The port was a gallery of greys. Heaps of boxes sat like graves scattered between the slow procession of ash-stained men filtering from squat concrete warehouses and into the industrial fog. I assumed my typical post-shift position, one arm strained against a failing lamppost as the other worked rhythmically at an e-cig. A man approached through the fog, the tattered yellow bandanna under his hood giving away his affiliations long before I saw his pock-marked face. Continue reading “Empath – Part One”

The Olive’s Glade

Once I walked a gilded glade that, perhaps, a god had made
And saw amongst the greening lay an olive, tall, with leaves that sway
Above the rambling roses’ nettles, above the rabbits’ furrowed dens
So long unworked by plowing metals; here darted enigmatic wrens
In search of mid-day feast and fare, but briefly did they linger there
Then raised their hunt above the glen; little kings within their ken.

I rested ‘neath that olive tree, and looked about as though to see
What antique tales could yet be seen, what story lingering gaze could glean-
How many years did this tree own? Was man at war when it set bud?
Perhaps a dove from it had flown, to signal end of ancient Flood?
I knew of scholars who once thought that such trees rarely fell to rot,
And if truth lay in such a claim, perhaps this tree saw man’s first flame.

Dotted on the olive’s bark were many a jagged, gruesome mark;
Grimy spots (so thick and dark!) where life was claimed by errant spark
And all along the mottled trunk, still laid the blain of many ax
That split the wood apart in chunks with every of their hewing hacks –
Looking on the tree’s past grief, from that idyll glade I gave relief
And if it stayed from mankind’s hands, perhaps that glade this day still stands.

The Traveler

In dreary spring the Traveler came
Through the sleet and through the rain
And in dim light he stopped to think:
“Is Fate my own, or penned in ink?
Of all the paths I’ve meant to stride,
So many trails I’ve left untried-
Is purpose bought with firstborn breath,
Or will my walk bring worthless death?”
The Traveler turned, then, to the road
And on and on he strode.

Over roaring hills the Traveler passed,
Through summer’s breath and burning blast-
His feet fell swift through rivers of glass
Over peaks of steel and crags of brass.
 Soles swung free as his mind was bound;
“Is life’s true meaning to ever be found?
Have all my days slipped by for naught?
Devoid of reason, futile and fraught?
And through all the turns my path will wend
Do I merely race to meet my end?”
The Traveler turned, then, to the road
And on and on he strode.

Under shimmering leaves the traveler strolled,
Through brazen reds and swirling gold-
Past whirring lights and blurring lines
Away from man’s confined designs
Yet still his thoughts would stray afield,
“Why will this question never yield?
My fate is all I’ve ever sought,
But answers are not cheaply bought-
Perhaps it’s drifting on the breeze,
Answers dwell in death’s surcease…”
The Traveler turned, then, to the road
And on and on he strode. 

In waning days the Traveler went,
Through fearsome frost which chilled and rent
Over glassy fields that claw at life,
In doubts and fear his mind was rife;
“Perhaps meaning is never found,
But traced behind the trails I’ve wound?”
The Traveler turned, then, to the road…