William Garza
Veteran Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- Camino Frances, The Jakobsweg
Soon
The White Whisper will be heard on the Camino
Omicient and racial memory hidden in the deeps of DNA
the world will feel once again
Cold.
The cadence slows and the tree knows the suchness of life so dearly that leaves bloom of blood and sun and finally of earth.
They flee the wrath, those born of ancient beyond ancient...for they too remember cold and turn to warmer climes
Soon
The White Whisper will draw upon glass..the spread language of the old hand etching
Winds..soon retching forth horefrost, rhyme and ice
The trees scream out in ectacy and die the little death and only we know of their passing in long winter walks..and their fingers reach toward a cold heaven
Bones rattle in the wind
Remember me.....
Strangers music..flute,whistle and highland pipes are calling,strange to those who flee the poems.
Strangers huddle close over tiny fires against the continental cold-closer than friends and world weary
A thousands year stare between them
Love
Is painfull
Pain-filled
Its cold forbidding..forbidden and to be met with trepedation,sedation and innoculation
No warm whispers here between the lines
Its cold and travelers pay a heavy fine
Pierced in soul and sole
Stigmata to be bourne in silence
Love is pain and rain and indelible stain
Pilgrim drags his foot against the habit of warmth and light and hearthstone.
But he looks into the cold solace
West..
Is not south
It is west
The White Whispers and he listens to the poetry
A pocket full of rot in his head...it takes the leaves and earthen wet
And from cold fertility springs the step
A walk among the old things,primal things.
Winters Pilgrim
Whatever draws you to lonely road and uncertain rest
A certain flocking to the test
May you meet the rising road with joy and soulfull rest.
The White Whisper will be heard on the Camino
Omicient and racial memory hidden in the deeps of DNA
the world will feel once again
Cold.
The cadence slows and the tree knows the suchness of life so dearly that leaves bloom of blood and sun and finally of earth.
They flee the wrath, those born of ancient beyond ancient...for they too remember cold and turn to warmer climes
Soon
The White Whisper will draw upon glass..the spread language of the old hand etching
Winds..soon retching forth horefrost, rhyme and ice
The trees scream out in ectacy and die the little death and only we know of their passing in long winter walks..and their fingers reach toward a cold heaven
Bones rattle in the wind
Remember me.....
Strangers music..flute,whistle and highland pipes are calling,strange to those who flee the poems.
Strangers huddle close over tiny fires against the continental cold-closer than friends and world weary
A thousands year stare between them
Love
Is painfull
Pain-filled
Its cold forbidding..forbidden and to be met with trepedation,sedation and innoculation
No warm whispers here between the lines
Its cold and travelers pay a heavy fine
Pierced in soul and sole
Stigmata to be bourne in silence
Love is pain and rain and indelible stain
Pilgrim drags his foot against the habit of warmth and light and hearthstone.
But he looks into the cold solace
West..
Is not south
It is west
The White Whispers and he listens to the poetry
A pocket full of rot in his head...it takes the leaves and earthen wet
And from cold fertility springs the step
A walk among the old things,primal things.
Winters Pilgrim
Whatever draws you to lonely road and uncertain rest
A certain flocking to the test
May you meet the rising road with joy and soulfull rest.
