Casting Mountains into the Sea

The Mountains roll down the land out into the green sea.
the mists wrap the peaks as they slip by silently
the surf churns and crashes upon the rocks in white sprays
reflecting the sky hues in colorful rainbows refracting rays
I cast crags out like skipping stones out into the deep
as fish rise to the surface silver links, echoes of sleep
I have far to drive before I find my pillow and bed
another place where the images of this rugged land
fill my head.

Flight

The man waits in the belly of the great silver bird.
He sings to himself a familiar song, he sings this tune
Oh Mother Mother Earth release me so that
I can go see my Father Sky, so way up high
above you Mother Earth. Cast me forth into
the wind with all your might, then Father Sky
can catch me in this holy flight.
Oh Father Father Sky receive me into your
welcoming arms, hold me there so far away
from the world that harms. Take me away over
the clouds so high, upon the eagle's wings, let
me hear the angel's cry.
Then oh Father Father Sky let me go back down
to ground away from your bright face, Send me back
to Mother Earth's soft embrace, so that I might
find my sleep in the star filled night as from your
hands I shall end my flight.

Chasing Lions

Chasing Lions
First there is the vastness of the Bush
much more in my memory then what spreads out
before me as I sit here in the Land Rover roving
through the dirt roads, ever moving, jostling, bumping
thumping into and over rocks and puddles as the
gray skies drizzle down the soft rain down, down
onto the parched spaces inside my brain.
Then there are those lions ever ahead of me
their elusiveness as ghostlike as the reality
that I might not find them as they slide out of
view, the idea of them goes slightly askew, are
they even true or just some metaphor for me to
construe?
The almost sleepy look of the lion's eyes peers out
to me from the bush grasses as I sit in abject shock
that at last I have found the prey that I seek only find
that what is the lion and what I have believed to be is
not the same thing, it's the idea that takes wing, nothing
will bring back the truth that comes from the heart of this
hunt, this trek, this walk into the bush, just a journey to try
on like the fact that in all this I am still chasing lions.

Words, words, words and for the record, more words.

Words,
My words are weapons filled with pain and rage
as if I am a shakespearean actor shouting his lines
down the rake of the evening stage.
Your words stick to me like cobwebs and remain
as if there was nothing else to what you said,
nothing but the mindless refrain in my brain.
Words,
like all the things I ever wanted to tell you anyway,
like all the times I wanted to show you that you
mattered to me more than the words I had to say.
Paint, painting by the numbers 1 being blue
2, being the very essential color that I must 
define as you.
Art and craft, who I am and who I am with
as if to suggest that my portfolio will be determined
by one humongous vainglorious sieve?
My words fall down from my mind to this blog post
to lay there in full view of my own silence, all my
time, all of your sins, the machina in my ghost.
Words,
In the end, they will carry me through the day
in the end, they will marry and bury us together
as if our scene has run out, now bow, now stay.
Words are my own version of the truth
memories, passages, pages, all the present trouble
unkempt, chaotic, honest and uncouth
this is what I was like when I will grow old
or at very least, so I am told.