Upon a Stone

Given grace that I could  rest
my head along this road,
I would not.

Given chance to shed a tear
along this winding journey,
I would not.

Given a moment to ponder
along this meandering path,
I would not.

Given the will to pause
along my way
I would not.

For upon trails end,
I will rest, I will cry,
ponder and live again.

Given grace to question
while I sojurn,
I would ask,
ask of whom?

For in all my steps
not one for me,
each for another,
even one for thee.

In my travels
I have found
there never comes
that time to be

Yet comes a time
before me now
where all such things
that come and go

Cry out to rest, to pause,
to ponder.

So upon a stone
aside a road,
a well traveled path,
my soul does set
eternally waiting

for death's sunset.

A Call to the River’s Edge

In the center city square
stands a tall dark stranger
calling all
to the rivers edge

From the steeple bell
screams a white washed young women,
calling all
to the rivers edge

Along the path
stands a young boy, hand cupped to mouth
calling all
to the rivers edge

Where the banks stand moist
the water runs cool
and the man in the river
calls to you

Calls to you
to cross over to
the other side
the one you cannot see

Cool, cold sun
lays muted in the
day long sky
cleansing a soul

Crying for passage
to a place no one goes
cept those called

called
to the rivers edge.

 

There is a Thought

There is a thought
that comes
to flutter, to wander
never to settle
never to alight.

Disturbing,
Unequivocal,
bothersome
and dark
she peacefully blights

All that question
that repose in quietude
to ask, a simply why
a quest of knowledge
becomes frightened sight

Nothing to know
to see or contemplate
to be ones own
never to be another's own
is a lifelong fight.


No ReDo Blues

Like any old man,
I’m an old man longing
for sex, drugs and
rock and roll

Those wild times
wild women
Keggers and fires
Blackout nights

Where pigs ruled
and we ran and fled
into the night
into the woods

Machine Gun wailed
Zeppelin serenaded
Colors came in
eight way orange

Crosses were white
Nickles were five
and a lid was twelve
the fountain spouted bubbles

Doc Holiday sounded
all gathered to play
in Lum or Gregory
The night faded away

 

If you like short stories, check out my  Amazon Kindle Authors page. You can’t go wrong for 99 cents.

Appropriate?
or ‘I  told you so!’

Cry 121
or ‘I f*cking told you So’.

rob paxtons social commentary
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