along the rocks

along the rocks where stands a man
with purpose in his granite eyes.
no more the skeptic's sorrowed lies,
he searches for a legend.  once began,
twice betrayed.  he has prayed
himself an epiphany and purchased
well his subtle passions unbound
and unbidden.  unhidden from himself.
strong with the sober judgement, but
still feeling the silk of the Selke's 
skin between his fingers every night
as he sleeps and dreams the dreams.


little monsters

little monsters underfeet.
what to wear.  what to eat.
what to do.  where to go.
do they know I love them so?


the troubadours

I listened to the troubadours last night.
they must be from a different land than 
my soul.  for I know the first cut is not
the deepest.  and roses never kiss.
and I have bought tickets to the bliss
of another man's metaphors more than once.
more than twice.  and the price has been
burned in my soul.  vague tattoos on my tongue.
and the night does not belong to lovers...
for they all leapt to their depths when they found
that love costs more than a tryst of fate.


paying for peace

we all pay for our peace.
if we are lucky, in blood, sweat,
toil and tears.  but the years
take their toll.  and if the peace
is not true, it will release
the stored venoms of our falsehoods
upon us to eat our flesh and burn
our eyes from their sockets like
rockets bursting in loud report
of rapid oxidation.  revelations
are rare, realizations and 
memory more likely when we find
truths we had conveniently misplaced.
traced wakeup calls that come 
from our hearts, not quite as dumb
as we imagined.  and certainly not deaf.
for they can hear a coming storm.
or a fading footstep in the dark.


celebration of a kiss

knee deep in the cool waters
of the sea.  free from shame.
free from the petty game
that drove us North in search
of the Selke's true lair.
dark hair.  dark eyes.
but a heart of honest passion.
worthy of a legend.  of a portrait
in words real, not fantasies
to be swept up like whittlings
after a heart is carved to 
suit an inconstant suitor.


the drums

I hear the drums in the forest.
calling me.  soft words
and a battlecry like woad
in a wound.  numbing.  colours
running together like armies
of the night, unable to read 
shield and insignia.  purpose
lost, survival being the only game.
painful.  precious.  private.
each mortal at peace with actions
to be taken to survive the night.


flowers for your hair

if I gave you flowers for your hair
would you wear them?  or would
you put them away in a vase somewhere
for future reference...in case you could not find
better blossoms or a better suitor
to dance on the beach with?
and would you be strong enough,
to answer when asked, 
where you got the flowers from,
when the jealous boys at the well
asked...their fists clenched in
self-targeted cowardice?  there are no
right answers to the riddle.  but I have
little time for vases and evasions.
love is meant to be a simple thing
that we poison only with artifice
and our our shortcomings.  wear
the flowers and dance with me
in the twilight, and I will everyday
find new flowers to add fragrance
to your life.  to your love.  to your heart.


copyright William F. DeVault (wfdv)