Delay

Among the brier you’ll find the Friar
on the run from the dark.
But where will you find me-
in the crowd of leprous unfortunates?
I run round the roundabout
and eventually slip off the road.
In the bramble you’ll find me
hiding from the Friar
whose searching on his toes.
Here in the mud I’ll hide
till darkness can hide me
and to dust I’ll return.

Behold, the Bold

He planted a scarecrow
and told the children of Heaven
to look not at idle fancy,
rather to erect pillars
and set their delicate oil bowls
upon windy heights.
At one such site
the bowl formed a crack and let loose the oil
to slowly vine its way down the stone.
A pale traveler,
riding lazy upon his horse,
let fall a ghostly ember
and the pillar was set alight.
From the preachment steps
all of the innocents watched
as the fire webbed into the night
and licked at the silhouette of the scarecrow.

Useful

Hers is a brittle braiding of bone
Pulled and tensioned to their breaking point
and let lapse directly before the snap.
What’s to be said
of this thin rope woman?
What finders will run along her frayed end pieces?
Which burden will be her last to tow?
What’s to be said
of a lifetime made up of a million tangled threads?

and you

Seven women lay upon a tear stained mattress.
Out in the distance a fawn is eaten by a coyote.
The wrens look on and sing their ode,
as a ghostly frame dawns his cloths.
Understanding fault is easy is this game of creation,
accepting it is more of a prophets inclination.

Fellows

The travelers reeled in their night ecstasy
and piled their boots by the fire.
These men of the road dance a forgotten jig
that was once world known.
With their arms locked in mirth
they shout down the silver lighted moon.
When the rumpus is done and their feet full worn
they curl up and sleep by the soft glow of embers.
In the wake of the sun they up and don
the first pair of boots their hands lay upon.
O, how new the day is!