Western

The novelty is never lost on those
Those that know that tides will turn
The barrier never breached for these
These battle weary men

The bounty is never quarried by

....Except the top, where there was a garish carving of an Indian chief. It looked untouched. The jet-black hair, blazing eyes and high pronounced cheek bones were an awe-inspiring sight...

I love my spaghetti westerns and because I was challenged to write out of my "genre". Well not sure I've quite managed that but ...

A poem inspired by the Eastern Spring

It’s a warm summer’s day, and I want to see the world
As the sun shines, blinding spotlights off my windows of pearl,
I want to see the world

So much beauty, so profound

Poor doggy!

These are dark times ahead
Elusive dreams
On an island
Stranded
The waves frozen
Dutifully calm
Against the sky of Grey

Porcelain
Cups of sand
Grain by grain
Lain on the strand

Something I wrote about poverty.

The End

John turns at the sound of the door opening behind him. Rose passes through the archway.
"Rose, where have you been? I was worried sick."

John pulls his horse to a stop beside the carriage and dismounts. The town of Garrison sits far behind, reduced to a black spot on the horizon.

Gabriel crosses the threshold of Father Maxwell's home. The door lies broken inward, freed from its hinges, exposing the house to the twisting desert wind.

"It seems we have visitors," Peter says.

Father Peter sits behind his desk marking passages in a tattered bible. He closes the book and removes the reading glasses from his strained eyes, rubbing his hands through his fiery red hair.

The Tall Man sits alone in his tent. Outside, the rumble of his men’s partying and drinking can be heard. The Rider, however, is in no mood for festivities.

John wakes to the sound of Jane’s voice. A sweet melody flows from her lips. She sits in the cubby beside the windowsill with her cheek pressed against the cool glass.

John enters Haven. A large sign on rusted hinges rocks with the wind as he passes beneath. The town is not unlike the others, half empty and quiet. No church towers over the structures.

“Who are you?”
“I am God.”
“And I?”
“You are the servant.”

A soft voice, a child’s voice, reaches out to him, bringing forth a holy tune.

"Child of mine
I call you in the water
and put my name on you."

John turns his head and looks up through the hole where the three wooden beams meet, watching as the clouds drift above and wondering if they watch him in turn.