Tag Archives: abandoned

Back Country

Felicity and I were sitting in an overgrown field,

in what was once the grand yard of a regal house,

now rot and ruin and only filled with ghosts of

the family and those their riches kept underfoot.

The sun was falling away, rolling back the light

like it was being pulled up like the curtain of

a theatre stage, revealing the stars and the moon

and the shooting stars that were the real show.

Felicity and I had been riding all day together

on her ’77 yellow and blue Yamaha motorbike.

Even stopping to rest, or to eat from our packs,

hardly any words had passed between us.

Forgotten roads we’d ridden through, derelict

buildings and small towns and the wilderness the

demons had reclaimed, in dark haunted tunnels

and abandoned cemeteries, ruined, toxic factories.

We were looking for demons, we were looking for angels,

we were looking for God in what sublimity remained in

this world, and to spiritually lost misfits like us, just her

driving us on her bike into the places that we’re left behind.

We do not sleep. Pilgrims do not sleep. They do not rest.

The ruined regal house was the sharp, white fang of greed

and all that it devours to sustain itself, all the flesh and bounty

it eats to grow and grow and grow, never enough, never enough blood.

The stars were countless, out here in the back country, and we

rode on into the night, the engine of the motorbike like a high

and angry wasp, intent on revenge, intent on giving the venom

it hoarded into another, anyone would do.

In the wind, in the tunneled light of the headlight in the dark

on the winding and curvy road, her thoughts were blown back

into my head through my eyes, and I saw the vision she chased after.

A small house, with grey dirty bricks, ivy growing on a courtyard wall.

Two stories high, with a black roof, nestled against a tall, rolling hill.

There was a golden light on in the bedroom on the second floor.

“That my mother, an angel, keeping a light for me, hoping I’ll come home.”

We drove onwards to that house through the wilderness, not knowing if we’d ever make it there.

Precarious Angel

Daisie stands beside me, in the old school in the forest.

Overgrown and dusty, still some desks and scattered books,

and arcane and forgotten messages of cracked chalkboards.

The scent was of musky decay, and all faded things.

She takes pictures, and poses me in a desk beside a window.

Pensive, I look out into the afternoon, the sun through

the dirty glass blowing out the darkness to give me a halo.

I am a precarious angel. My adoration of her all that makes me human.

She walks down the hallway, looking in the rooms, quiet.

All will pass away. Someday the world will be as this place.

Me and Daisie will be in our graves, and will pass onto dust.

Will the grace of our friendship, of our strength together, remain?

Will the love for another, return to heaven, be eternal light in another age?

Breath and Blood

The old and ruined church in the woods,

open to the sun and the stars, and overgrown

and verdant with ivy, kudzu and flowers.

A place of worship forgotten, used by people

long gone, it is taken by nature, and nature is God,

and God is awesome and always wiping us away.

Solitude, the cool, moist and misty morning,

the babble of the little clear brook, and silence,

allowing a small, still voice to speak.

In the wind, I feel something, in this left behind

and more righteous cathedral, that is more than

breath and blood.

A moment, and then the world comes in, and

breath and blood is all I am, simply human,

still longing to touch something behind the air.

And I think of a long past lover, and a November

evening, in youth and freedom and a gaudy city,

and if in those soft kisses, did our souls really touch?