From out of weeping rock,
windswept land;
muddy hooved deer, attempt
to find refuge.
Trees, leaning towards hunting shacks;
in for the kill.
Unrelenting, haunting of sky,
no sunshine; only sleeting rain.
The dead are complacent,
snug, within damp underground
confines.
And the poet is hunkered down,
dreaming about the words,
underneath the flickering candle light;
accompanied, only by the
clacking of an old typewriter;
and the towering menace; of the ancient
grandfather clock; perched against the
pale grey wall;
saying nothing;
but leaving it all, to the
pendulums; swaying in hypnotic
cadence.
A Small Village Somewhere
Dunoon that craggy tomb
stony cliffs cold to touch
a mythical place forgotten by
cruel hands of time
that flowing lush jade palace of exile
those lochs and pebble adorned shorelines
high winds sure too bowl you over
skies so grey that even the seagulls cry
a township dotted with daft fluffy sheep
winding lanes and tiny automobiles sputtering
cursing the day
rejecting the night
churches and pubs in which to while away
the loneliness of hours
inside
it's warm hearth
gather round the fireplace
listen to the elders resight
stories of mythical proportions
of prophecy
patrons sipping sherry
guzzling pints of dark ale
cider and Scotch
and the time goes on and on
so quickly
and before you know it you're
the elder
telling the stories
legends and myths
by the fireplace in the dingy little
pub in that quaint little village
somewhere in this world
who knows where you'll transfix
the next generations
with your rambling yarns
you could end up anywhere in this world
maybe even Dunoon.
Even in the Silence
Raindrops
falling
gentle upon the
rooftop
her smile
the beacon
of light
within
this room
watching her
nestled beside me
and
even
in silence we're
the completion of
one another
a mirror reflection
a refraction of
sound that carries
everything
even when no words
are spoken
a ripple of dreams
cascading throughout
the stillness of
this room
and memories of
the vast dark skies
above.
A Song for the Wounded Bird
This life given,
I did not ask
for this.
Did you?
All of this pain,
and suffering, I
did not ask for
this.
Did you ask for
it?
There is no one
left to reach out
too, there never
was.
Mom?
Dad?
Reveal yourself?
God?
Please?
It was just all a
simple shell game,
use me and abuse
me.
A game?
This heart bleeds
along with those
children held within
the shackles of
abandonment.
This mind feels the
isolation of the elderly.
No slow winter's thaw,
could never mend this
brokenness, this
emptiness.
This body lays down by
the rickety park bench,
worn and whimpering.
Vacant eyes, the mirrors
of the soul, lost in the orange
glow of a fire barrel to
stay warm.
Death could be the only
freedom, ever known to
cure this ill, lonely we
dance upon this stage,
lonely we die.
Poor Man's Serenade
By the age of 24
I had lived my life,
and seen all that I
had needed to see.
Upon the waves
of a Navy vessel,
risking life & limb,
seeing the world.
And before that
it was the Army,
the grenades, the
yelling and bombs.
I came out of my
childhood, with
PTSD and the
wounds, the wounds;
that would not heal;
nor fade.
By the age of 24, I
had done it all &
drank it all; and lived
the life; below the
poverty lines, down,
down, down; in the
trenches, and beneath
the waves; a poor man’s
serenade.
A Final Victory
A ray of light trickles
through the willows,
birds sing in the early
evening; winter has us,
dawning in eternal ebbs
and flows; of ethereal
beauty.
Prayers for the dead-
Prayers for the living-
And even though, this
world is encapsulated,
in the throes of wars, and
famine and greed, the
birds keep singing, and
that ray of light keeps
shining; in the hopes of
good, having a final victory,
over all evil.
Bio
Wayne Russell is a creative jack of all trades, master of none. Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize Nominee, creative writer, rhythm guitar player, singer, artist, photographer, and author of the poetry book Where Angels Fear via Guerilla Genius Press. It is available for purchase on Amazon.
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