Oil

Oil. That glimmerless gold that once endured a bound existence roams free upon the desert hills. Where creeks ran dry, ebony streams now follow, their fountains interrupting whatever there was of sunlight and clear sky.

A lone miner plays Tug of War with his camel, both parties wishing different ills upon the captive in the man’s old cart. The miner, hungry, pulls one way, to the only place a fire could be safely lit amidst the flowing veins. The camel, jealous, drives another way, to anywhere else. Indeed, a remarkable argument it is, the struggle between man and mount.

Watching in fright and grief is the miner’s daughter, her pink dress a blinding contrast against the bleak sands. She can do nothing; yea, she can mean nothing, except for the value of her dress added on to her father’s dwindling salary. Knowing the futility of any action she might take, she sobs on the camel’s side of the desert plain, unnoticed by all involved.

All this over nothing more than the head of a sun-spectacled giant, his pheasant wings bound with chains to the miner’s cart. He stretches high above the conflict, reaching vainly for the sky once called his. And yet he smirks as the last of his life is squeezed from him and fought over. His chains grow looser with each failing breath.

At last the pheasant man sees sunlight, that unexchangeable gold which now bathes the desert hills. No cart is in sight, but the miner dangles from a leash on the flying giant’s neck, beaten by the recoil of the pheasant’s flapping of his wings. Below he sees a spot of pink upon the golden sand. Even from such heights it can be seen that she rides joyously upon her camel, undisturbed by thoughts of food or money.

Oh, if that had been the pheasant man’s ending, there’d have been no need for the spark that consumed them all!

The Waiting Game

For a man who doesn’t drink,
You sure know how to start your day
With a headache that won’t go away.
It’s not right that you’d be used to it,
But I suppose that’s something best
Left to reason and no test.

But consider yesterday
When you retired prematurely,
Or so you thought it was too early–
For as you waited after nightfall,
Chance escaped without your knowing,
Though your vigil kept on going.

Return to when the candles,
The many candles melted time
Before their last gray ghosts would climb
And convince you that your wait was done,
That all your dreams had been in vain
And that you’d never dream again.

Think back to then, to what you did,
When finally your heart was broken,
And it would cling to just one token
Left long before this night had started.
You remember kneeling, don’t you?
I dare say it was all you knew.

Pray, my boy! And pray you must,
For only then will deity bless.
Pray for comfort and success
So that one is sure for you, at least.
It’s not a crime to try such tricks,
Or else that law would long be fixed!

It’s quite a challenge, I suspect
To fall asleep expecting for
Hope to just knock at your door.
Rest easy; it will come in time.
But you would rather keep the sorrow,
Thinking life will change tomorrow.

That’s your biggest problem, lad;
Your waiting game is just a game!
And when you fall you rush to blame
Any party you can think of,
Believing that would make things right,
While you, yourself, are out of sight.

But you know, this waiting thing,
It’s not a game. You’re wasting time!
You should know it’s no small crime
To wait and idle all at once.
Someday they’ll say, “Look at this lad!
“He could have had more than he had.”

Do you feel it’s been worthwhile
To let neglect lock every door
Your fortune opened once before?
And yet you play this waiting game!
I know not why they call it “play”
Or “game” when waiting does betray.

It’s not the life that you deserve,
So get up now, I do implore,
And put both feet upon the floor
Before they waste away without
Knowing what they could have done
To change the world, or anyone!

So let your headache pass with time,
And work, and growth, ambition full,
For then you’ll see to wait is dull,
And life is better when you’re up.
It translates to accomplishment,
And that, my friend, is time well spent.

Victim of a Far-off Dream

Autumnal kisses in the bleak
And dreary air of Fall,
And whisp’rings on the dying chic
Of greenery in all:
A Traveler, asleep, acquires
These mystifying gems,
His wide-brimmed hat upon gray wires,
His thoughts away from them.
A silent dream below the red
Upholstery of the Earth
Contains itself in cloak unshed
For sake of warming mirth.

This mirth, I say, is simple fun,
A basic revelry.
Our Traveler beseeches some
In dreams below a tree.
These dreams, these images, some say
Reveal what was forgot
Of Summer, ever lost away
In Autumn’s shrinking knot.

So Traveler (or so he’s called),
Beseeching revelry,
Left for Summer Past had shawled;
His soul, at last, was free.

He woke below his Autumn oak,
Majestic, grandiose, cold,
And yet a new life in it spoke
Of greenery of old.
Another fleeting moment passed.
Our Traveler wept for joy—
It was the one Midsummer last
He’d favored as a boy!

He visited the deep blue lake,
No longer trapped in ice.
He swam a bit, until he ached,
But it was worth the price.

Of course the mountain, loving, grim,
Played host to Traveler next.
He climbed until the light grew dim,
Then climbed back down to rest.

Now Campfire Traveler loved the most
As strength and warmth and friend.
No cushioned seat, no meat to roast. . . .
He stayed despite the trend.
Midsummer nights were worth it all,
At least their memories fond,
For Traveler knew, come bitter Fall,
He’d lose this loving bond.

Evening crept upon him slow,
As thieves do in the night.
The wolf, the deer, the mouse, the crow
All found the fire’s light.
And Traveler, knowing night air chill,
Invited these fair guests
Into his shelter, warm and still,
While pond’ring future quests.

At last the midnight hour tolled.
The forest fell asleep.
Our Traveler’s quiet wakening lulled,
And dreams began to creep.
The seraphim and cherubim
All watched with great intent.
They smiled and laughed at seeing him–
Oh, the dreams they could invent!
They sang a song to him that slept,
“Come hither, thou young child.
Deny the life you would accept
To seek our treasures wild!”

Again our Traveler woke from sleep,
Once more in Autumn’s leaves.
Their deathly crisp would make him weep,
Because he’d been deceived.
Mourned he as he walked and wept,
“I came as a young child,
Denied the life I would accept,
Because I was beguiled!”

Black Tiled Concourse: Part Nine

My limbs remained frozen through the entire scene.  Over and over again the stranger’s mutilation of his own face played itself in my head, taunting me even after he melted to the black tiled floor.  I suppose it should have disturbed me, but instead I became bored with the repeated image.  Perhaps it was the lack of blood, or the man’s seeming disinterest in his own death . . . it’s a mystery that I never want solved.

The real torture, in actuality, came from my disabled movement.  It annoyed me that out of all the shoppers in the mall, none would rescue me from this state of inanimation . . . and yet I was grateful that no one came, for I did not wish for any of them to become involved.

With time, the place became desolate.  Even the women and their attacker had been moved without my noticing; I had payed too much attention to my own paralysis.  But it wasn’t long after their removal that I was freed, for a reason which I know not.  I started joyfully for the escalator, but still never reached it.  A deafening alarm sounded just steps before my destination, followed closely by cold hands lifting me into another reality.

Wake up, they whispered rudely.

Black Tiled Concourse: Part Eight

I found him only a short distance away from the crime scene, stopped conveniently in front of the mall security office for a reason I could not decipher. It would have been so easy to catch him right there . . . but a twisted part of me wanted to watch and see how he would finish this. I hate being human.

Strangely, I no longer felt anything. No fear. No anxiety. I froze where I stood yet again; the murderer was within the reach of my arm, but I could not raise it sufficiently to touch him. He looked at me with now empty eyes, then straight ahead from where he stood. Finally he raised his weapon to his chin, and with the same grin he had shot me earlier, shoved it up into his head.

Black Tiled Concourse: Part Seven

Unaware of their attacker’s approach, the women were given no opportunity to react. In one quick swipe, the mother lost the top third of her head; the daughter had only been scalped. It was a mistake that the girl had survived that strike, but the suited man took no heed and left her for dead. The victims did not fall, however; instead they remained as statues at the foot of the escalator. There was no blood, but I knew that the mother had already died. Only after this was I allowed to move again.

I immediately gave chase to the killer. The fact that I had nothing to fight or contain him with was no concern at this time; I could not let this man get away.

Black Tiled Concourse: Part Six

The first I saw of him was the machete. Its round, rusted blade burst from the ferns at the end of the terrace, held tightly by its wily master. He moved swiftly from cover to victim, slowing just long enough in the middle to grin at me. I could finally see his eyes–his menacing, bloodshot eyes.

Every attempt I made at warning the women failed. Words were useless; not a sound escaped my mouth, no matter how loud I thought I shouted. Neither was there any doubt in my mind that my feet could move; I just wasn’t making any progress. In desperation I waved my arms, but to no avail.

I no longer had any choice but to watch the cruel deed.

Black Tiled Concourse: Part Five

Little more than thirty feet were left between me and the end of the hall. Two escalators stood in the center of the intersection, guarded by a number of vending machines and benches. There was an elevator, too, with glass walls on all sides. It had just arrived on my floor, spitting out a mother and her daughter. The girl was beautiful . . . fifteen, maybe sixteen? Her strawberry blond hair fell in curls around her shoulders–a trait obviously gained from her mother, who looked only slightly older than her. The two of them dressed fashionably, which at this point came as no surprise to me. . . .

What was I thinking? This was no time to be lady watching! I had slowed down too much already; I didn’t need this. Yet something about these women captivated me . . . the same bond I felt before with the suited stranger, except this one to me was more of a fascination than a stressor. It wasn’t until after the girls turned their backs to me, however, that I sensed anything distinctly wrong.

I knew where he was hiding.

Black Tiled Concourse: Part Four

Our race did not last long before an intersection with other halls snuck up on us. We both looked ahead at it; there was only so much time before the terrace ended and my rival would be forced to join me in the open. The thought both comforted and frightened me. My opponent knew this, and took advantage of a golden opportunity as I debated with myself as to which emotion I should accept. No sooner had he done so than I awoke from my confusion . . . but I was too late.

A quick moment of silent panic returned me to my original habit of watching the shoppers. They were only pawns . . . unknowing game pieces in a larger conflict. The queen hid somewhere in the mass of commoners, and I was in check. One wrong move, and . . . I didn’t want to think about it. My attention span had already lost me my adversary; I had little–if anything–left to lose.

Black Tiled Concourse: Part Three

There–to the right! He looked like the rest, but I just knew. There was a certain feeling there that . . . I don’t know . . . I suppose one could call it a connection. I had seen this man before–-possibly even spoken with him–-but I remembered nothing else. Apparently he had also experienced that feeling, for he stayed on the terrace and glanced at me periodically as he walked. We kept the same pace and distance, our suspicions of each other growing with every step.

My attention became devoted to this man–-the way he walked; the way he eyed me over the ferns; his increasingly nervous attitude. He carried something, too . . . but what? It was impossible to tell from my angle. I had never before seen anyone wield a briefcase in such a manner as he did; therefore, that option left my consideration. However, the remaining mystery aroused a sort of unexplainable anxiety within me that would not settle down.

Black Tiled Concourse: Part Two

My course was a straight line. Shoppers parted like the Red Sea as I made my way to nowhere. Ambient ferns lined the hall, and the smell of food court delicacies wafted from terraces on either side. The people on their lunch breaks were all I could truly focus on . . . businessmen in brown suits with briefcases. They were all the same, and that’s what bothered me.

There came at length a movement from within the terrace to my right, and quickly several of these working men reentered the concourse where I was walking. The hurried expression of getting back to work was clear on their faces, but I could not see their eyes. Some wore thick glasses that glared, while others simply put a hand or other article in the way. One of these men is a killer, I thought. Come out, come out, wherever you are. . . .

For Good

You were looking pretty low,
To find me where you did.
I asked if there was some mistake
That put you at my side;
A face like yours just can’t belong
Where the broken go to hide.

I’m not one to look for signs,
But your story was the same as mine,
So many times.
Our hearts had always passed us by,
And left us with regret
We’d ever tried.

Chorus
Babe, let’s find a way to stay awake;
We can’t afford to miss the night we met!
Hey, let’s fly away from circumstance.
We’re all we need to drift away
To a place that I call second chance,
Where our dreams can always last,
Where the past stays in the past
For good.

Tears don’t have to last forever
In places like this,
Where dreams find a way to carry on.
Let’s make us a memory
To erase all the old;
We don’t need what we’ve left so far
Behind.

Tomorrow will be a better day
We’re going far away
From everything that once stood
In our way.

Chorus

Take my hand, and we can get away
To the place I’ve saved for you,
Where we won’t have to face another day
Dejected and confused,
Our hearts afraid to choose,
Afraid to get away
For good.

Chorus

Where our dreams can always last,
Where the past stays in the past
For good.

Black Tiled Concourse: Part One

It would be a lie to say I could recall why I had been in the mall that day, or even how long I had been there. No money weighted my pockets, so I assumed this to be the end of a successful trip . . . yet my hands were empty, save for the sweat that had collected in my palms. I didn’t feel nervous, by any conscious means. But clearly my body knew better.

I thought it strange that no one else appeared to feel as I did; it was idiocy on their part, in my not-so-humble opinion. But for some reason I longed to be like the others, at least in my desire for dry palms. It is often said that ignorance is bliss . . . if this is true, then perhaps I would much rather know nothing and join my “fellow” mall patrons in their passivity. This certainly was a tempting thought as I wandered the black tiled concourse.

The Greater Sense

Should reason leave and sense abandon me,
And nagging thoughts of logic be displaced,
I’d still have more with which I could agree
Than if my knavish mind I had embraced;
For of the values given to my head,
There is not one with worth as has my core.
Indeed, when safety, fame, and friends have fled,
No thief can take that which I do adore.
And yet, my mind grows jealous of that fact,
Denying any claims that love is there.
It tries for my attention to distract,
But fighting it, I valiantly declare:
“Arise, my Heart, and win what must be thine!
Defeat thy foe and make thy glory mine!”

On the Banks of the Jordan

Oft’ I view, through willow fingers,
Lucid shades of blue
Heralding a breeze that lingers
On through Fall’s debut.

Frigid running of green water
Turns my mind away
From clear skies that are much broader
To another prey.

Watching for no special action,
I don’t find a thing;
Rather, I seek satisfaction
In what Jordan brings.

Simple tunes of nesting songbirds
And the changing leaves
Cause a sense of going backwards
Through the clock’s white sleeve.

Here I land, a reborn child
Knowing not the sting
Caused by losing Jordan wild . . .
Living like a king.