WALKING THE RIO PECOS

RWP#109 using some of the words (in BOLD)

WALKING THE RIO PECOS

Walking along the Rio Pecos

with some shaman poet

our bodies reverbrating

to the drummed earth below

enthusiasts for the words of truth

unknown pagans asking questions

from the ghost riders

and the black shouldered ravens

that fly in the energy washed skies

moving to the mysteries

of the fertile celestial world

with the guilded monuments of marble

and simple stones

gargling froth from our lungs

corrupted with mescaline

drunk on water and sundered hearts

searching for chaos of the mind

from some Krishna volcano

that surrendered open

listening to buddhist monks

playing jazz with Coltrane

under sundered skies of the Mescalero

walking

walking

along the Rio Pecos.

SPIRITUAL MYSTERY

RWP#108

SPIRITUAL MYSTERY

cold winter morning

crunching snowshoes in mountain air

begging for sunshine and new words

at high noon

or some midnight dance

with the naked trees that shiver

surrounded by the silent mountains

and three black ravens overhead

chasing the parting clouds

and some lost poem

burried beneath the quilt we walk on

protruding from some dark coffin

the lost sylabbles remain

waiting for the sunlight

as the words of a dead poet

announces the resurecction of a poem

another spiritual mystery.

RWP#107...inspired from this photo "shotgun blast" by Shane Gorski

SHOOTING GALLERY

There was no light

only darkness and tattooed graffito

in the shadows of the dark horse

shooting junk

in the empty church loft

above the back alley of filth

below the street of lost hope

lossing their minds

and collapsed veins

a place to fix

with hollow sounds and silent shots

the mistress of of burnt spoons and dirty needles

took them to the pusher of death

Ken the keeper saw a glow

and remained

knowing that darkness comes before the light

he weathered the storm

of junk and dirty needles

when the ghost of himself appeared

on a tightrope of broken eggshells

and led him to the light

beyond the shadow of who he once was

emerging into the light

like a phoenix

his soul rose from the ashes

awakened with clarity

he made this his home

the shooting gallery of light.

JOHNNY THE WALKER

RWP#106...prompt was "repeating or repeat"...sitting here in the Rockies...cold...but in brilliant sunshine..foot of snow on the ground with birds at the feeder...wood stove keeping us warm before going for some snow shoeing....after talking to family.....I REFLECT...REFLECT on some of our lovely people who live on the streets...trying to keep warm..and having supper at some soup kitchen....my thoughts and love are with them...and HAPPY HOLIDAYS to all of the poets on the street and ALL OF YOU.....CHEERS...my poem is

JOHNNY THE WALKER.

I called him Johnny the walker

where the street was his home

the original dharma bum

lost

in his only words of

hello sir

I don't know her

the beat goes on

the poem he started

at Desolation Peak

in Kerouac's Cascades cabin

one hundred days of writing poetry

like Kerouac

the beat goes on

with the foggy days of a mad writer

high in the Cascade mountain wildernes
in the howling winds of Diablo Lake

tormenting his soul

too mad to live

too mad to be saved

too mad to talk

the beat goes on

writing about everything

saying nothing

all at once

exploding like snakes across the sky

as the world yawns

as the candles

burn

burn
burn

Johnny walked all the way to Canada

writing his poem

with his toque on his head

bundle on his back

now homeless at christmas

on Hastings street

hark hark the angels bark

as they pass by him

to some sweet shop

in the red horizon desert

not looking for books of poetry

but books on vacations

yoga

budhhism and self defence

as the beat goes on
for Johnny the walker it's only

hello sir
I don't know her

the beat goes on

lost

in his only words

harking at the barking angels

as they pass by him.

LEGENDARY STARS AND OLD CARS

RWP#105 using some of the prompt words

Legendary Stars and Old Cars

Somewhere East of Eden

deep in the Mojave desert

curled in the back seat

of my 52 Meteor convertible

under the moon and joshua trees

I awaken in some graveyard

of legendary stars and old cars

frozen tombs and zuit suits

a rusted Porsche

with James Dean at the wheel

still on speed

Marilyn in the backseat

awake

searching for chloral hydrate

parked next to a rusted 51 Caddy

with Hank beatin on a jug of wine

hey good lookin

what ya got cookin

cook some up for me

subdued humans

legendary stars and old cars

in a desert graveyard

somewhere East of Eden

reading Steinback

searching for sureal poems

speed

spirituality

and lost peyote buttons.

CHARM BRACELETS

RWP#104..this weeks prompt was something about sex
....this is a draft



CHARM BRACELETS

At the centre of our unrequited love
holding nothing as an object
celebrating music and poems
of some distant mystic
identifying our bodies
as star covered lovers
flying in our fused thoughts
embraced
aging
as our youth hides in a vase
beside Budhha
feeling the breeze of his magic touch
inside the museum of orange hues
staring at the constellations
as the earth shakes under our blazing dance
and thundering clouds
open to our lost memories of youth
aging
with stirring newborn emotions
striking lost parts of our bodies
unknown in our youth
with visions of mounted horses
blowing up in some new found space
our flesh searching for hidden pleasures
and sweet songs never sung
blessed in our nakedness
aging
intoxicated in our vintage wine of love
embraced
in our charm bracelet of sex.

SEEDY LADY

RWP#103....the prompt this week was the pomegranate.

SEEDY LADY

I met her on that night train

in Siberia

I didn't know her but I liked her

the legend amongst the crates

at the back of the dining car

beside two heavy set women

playing poker

smoking

I didn't know her but I liked her

sitting on a silver platter

beside a bowl of purple juice

hanging from some ancient garden

like some lost child in exhile

beside a huge machette knife

shining

tring to escape death from the underworld

searching for the fog of unshed tears

hiding

from bombs

cold rain and cable TV

defering the rifts of time

holding on to her ancient seeds of truth

her tough skin

crimson pulp without fiction

her tart flavour

her colour

her poetic stories

of gone but not forgotten pomegranates

I didn'know her but I liked her.