Grey hills

Sometimes, when wild intuitions have run their course,
I pine for the empty grey hills,
With only the bare wind for company,
No ages lost and whispered wide,
Just the wind and i and empty hills,
Beyond the contamination of these thoughts
That drag and push, rock and cry,
To the grey hills to lie down I go,
Into tombs covered up in the inky black
That seeps from caves of deep loneliness,
Such a draft could freeze a man’s blood,
But not I who burns, who rages at a billion degrees
I am ash coated in skin,
And here I am to lay down my bones
In the empty hills and rest awhile,
Dream of peace in a land no longer at war
With itself,
What do I do, what do I do now?
When the days of the past have run out
Another idea, and another
A dream to fire the eyes and fill the ears with the sound,
A falling rain of better coin,
Have I not chased down enough dreams?
Have I not pumped enough oil into this ceaseless engine of mind?
I want the still pool but cannot stop swimming,
I follow my nose because it can’t stop smelling
The taste of Arabia,
Market places and the deep desert beyond, always beyond
Like my life this writing undulates,
A coasting swell catch it and who knows where you’ll wash up,
I could spin thee tales year on year,
And a fine life perhaps I would tell
But strewn with disappointments caught up in the trough.
I will no longer becalmed look for the storm
To fling me to home away from home,
A light is burning in that cottage window
Over the dark marshes,
The candle throws it’s gloom upon the master’s face,
It is I in years when time has won
it’s Ravaged war upon my face
And hammered in resigned strength,
Erratic thoughts like wine in his old glass,
Sleepy belly contented from good food,
And worn out feet curled and warm by the fire,
It still burns from here I see,
he takes from it a brand when he needs to see a far off dream,
But mostly he needs it not to see the tearful eyes of youth across the marsh,
In the mirror they are the same,
And in those whites can be seen the breaking waves
That took him so far from home and back again
To The man he was supposed to be.
But the eye of the telescope is so sharp,
It can never see the rocks below looming close
Beneath the bow,
And neither can it see the man
You already were.
This journey’s steps may never grant such a vantage point,
To many pines whipping to and fro
Above deep foaming earth
Alive with life we’ll never see,
But neither will the worm see the stars
And so grey hills you can wait awhile,
For there’s some wondering and wandering to be done,
Like worms squirming in the earth,
And wine of life in jugs to drink,
And hands to clasp and friends to shake,
And women to bed and all is well,
On the morrow.
The sword will cut,
The bow will twang,
The eye will cry,
Thoughts will make the mind and the mind will think in turn,
A wheel spinning on and on-
And what loom does it spin?
This life.

Submitted for poetry potluck Week 47

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6 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. charlesmashburn
    Aug 08, 2011 @ 21:23:54

    A fascinating read! I really was swept away with the fast-paced excitement this piece presents. Well done!

    Reply

  2. Morning
    Aug 09, 2011 @ 17:11:19

    brilliant.

    🙂

    Reply

  3. jennifaye
    Aug 12, 2011 @ 15:56:52

    awesome. gave me goosebumps.

    Reply

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