Boardwalk - Edited.

Boardwalk, where do you lead? How many
feet have strolled upon your faded wood?
Do you have stories in your years less
than mine?

You carry people to a greater place than
I shall find.

Has anyone stumbled into her shallow waters?
My words hiss insults as she trembles,
snaking away from me. Faithful boardwalk
you are forever beneath me.

She says our path is never straight.
Neither are you. Boardwalk: you wind,
cavorting between bush and lake -- a bridge
to that harmonious relationship.

You bleed amber as they hammer you down.
Rhythmic tapping drowns out your disputes.
Muted by the bodies, only I can hear you.

Why do you not shiver when the icy breezes
roll off the ripples? I scuffed off
the last of your ingrained glory. My soles
took your coat, it is not refundable.

The Black Line

Grass swayed in time to the radio, golden
like Dana's wayward hair floating as tornado wind
blew into the car. We were driving to the horizon, but
it kept avoiding us, as if it were travelling too.

Dana said we were escaping, but I didn't know
from what. So we didn't stop to bask
in the emptiness of the plains, or wonder
why we spoke so little: silence
became our uninvited passenger, uncomplicated but present.
Greedily we welcomed him with open arms.
Only at night did we rest, the sluggish terrain as our bed,
the scattered, dull shine of the stars held our gaze
until sleep took us tight within his grip.

At dawn we drove again down the black line,
the tar that split the plains in half.

A Collection of Three.

1.

Traveled paths
Brown and dusty
Weaving through the earths knuckles
Hills and valleys
Wrinkles and ridges
Contours of something more
... A face?

2.

Just a thought
A mere whisper
Floating and drifting
Free to inspire at will
Airborne and unrestrained
Easily dismissed
But miraculous when used

3.

Lines can create
Can depict and portray
In shapes or words
To begin emotions
Yet a single group
A mere collection of lines
Can mean the death
The loss of life
For thousands
A signature

Charred By Passion

They are matchstick men
Fragile, skinny, weak
But they have the uncanny ability
To create a fire, a passion
It burns from head to toe
So bright, alive, glowing
The heat is infectious
It passes between the matchstick men
Soon they are all ablaze
So beautiful, pure, golden
But when the wind comes
It extinguishes life
All that is left are ashes
The blackened joy
The grey beauty
The matchstick men

2007

The low-down.

This is my second blog for my poetry but I cannot access my older one. The link is:
http://blackheartedpoetry.blogspot.com/

I will putting in a few of my more recent older poems but the rest will stay on the other blog.

Feel free to comment or give constructive criticism!

Some of my older stuff is also on my dA account:
http://scottish-gardeners.deviantart.com/

Enjoy!