Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Vision Quest

She walks along the hillside
And can feel the tribal drums
Pounding rhythms through her veins
As the next day’s morning comes.

The mournful North Dakota wind
Still holds the ancient chants.
She sees the tribe meet by the fire
To dance the sacred dance.

She can’t forget her heritage,
The world she’s never known,
How ancestors carved out their lives
From rock and wood and bone.

She knows she is a seer.
She envisions futures past.
She sees her bloodline rise and fall
And fears she’ll be the last.

She does not know her destiny,
Her path is unrevealed.
There is no one to light her way
And fate’s dark lips are sealed.

She walks along the hillside
And awaits a brighter day,
A woman searching for a home
And time that passed away.

Published in  Poet‘s Place in “The Bugle”  vol. 4 number 4 - Jan. 28, 2011.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

By Candlelight

She sits alone each evening
And she weeps by candlelight.
She’s dancing with his memory
On a cold Nebraska night.

She still can feel the velvet touch
Of his warm lips’ caress.
She still can feel his strong hands
Moving underneath her dress.

She promised him forever,
That she’d be his lifelong mate,
Not knowing how it all would change
With one cruel twist of fate.

He left her forty years ago,
Never to return.
Now she prays; “God rest his soul”
And lets her candles burn.

She lets her candles burn each night
And desperately she cries
Still married to his memory
For true love never dies.

Search Engine Synergy

An unsigned piece of soul
Carelessly discarded and burning through the ether
Lands on my computer screen via a random search algorithm.
Your cadence,
Your phrasing,
Your self-deprecation tinged with arrogance,
Still as familiar as the curve of your jaw
Or your breath on my neck.
Once we laughed and loved and chased our muse.
I see you too still answer her call.
Smiling down on our parallel lives,
The muse adds yet another cosmic coincidence
To the long-ago story of us.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Tea Time

Do not be afraid
As I sip my arsenic tea
And pray to join my ancestors.
Life, like good tea,
Should be savored,
And my cup is still quite full.


Greeting cards and pop songs
Would have us believe
Hearts are pretty,
Easily healed to pristine condition.

In reality,
Hearts are ugly,
Scarred with the tattoos of youthful regret,
Riddled with bloody chasms of grief and loss.
We wander through the voids
And curse our futile attempts at normalcy,
Questioning how we arrived there
And how our damaged hearts can ever go on.

But, across the gaps and the scars,
We breathe.
We move.
We love,
And we never forget.


Welcome to Write Wing Conspiracy.  It is here that I will be chronicling my journey back into writing as well as my poems.  I believe that inspiration can come from anything that goes on in our lives, so I will also touch on a bit of my life, emotions, and interests along the way.  To quote a great sailor man, “I am who I am, and that’s all that I am.”  I’m not hear looking for anyone’s approval.  I’m not here to apologize for anything.  I’m simply here to share a slice of my world and maybe a little bit of art too.

Turning forty provided a great opportunity to examine my life so far.  I certainly have not ended up where I expected.  I’ve made more than my share of mistakes, made my life much harder than it really needed to be through sheer stupidity at times. Fate has also been a willing co-conspirator, taking every available chance to kick me. And yet, my inner voice tells me that all the trials and heartaches I’ve experienced, it’s all building toward my shining moment.

So I’ve turned once again to writing.  I know it doesn’t fix anything, but it does give voice to my world. (If anyone happens to be listening is quite another story.)   I’ve got much more determination to keep with it now instead of letting life get in the way.

Thanks for stopping by, and feel free to comment on what you find here and if you enjoyed it please recommend it to your friends.