Salvation

Weary, I meander whispering, on rambled wasteland trails

haunted by hard-hearted

         and hateful half-truths

that stealthily stalk the unhealthy soul.

I perch on silent tiptoe's hope,

teeter on restless terrains,

to wrestle sanity and regain

some  solid ground of peace.

Trial's tumultuous tirade,

tantrum of a demonic whirlwind,

spins a myriad of shadowy sins,

to tempt and lead away

brainchildren born to be orphaned

by some stoic, egoic maniac.

In man's world,

I can only mope, hoping to somehow miraculously cope

with some pretend savior that shall 

eventually forsake me.

Teary, my eyes trickle onto paths of woeful wanderings 

and bleed their unhealed sorrow

undaunted by lean, mean, 

feigned-pain smiles. 

Ripped with fright ,

into nightmare screams,

that seek for rescue's  slumber,

and lumber midst the lonely.

Compassion's heavenly healing,

like light, white feathery angelic wings  

wraps my dozen, dazzling dreams,

to protect those long gone away

brainchildren born of cosmic logic 

within some distant, omniscient consciousness.

In God's world,

I can only grow , knowing how to  somehow miraculously flow

with my true Savior that shall 

never forsake me.

~P.S. Colley

Dec. 2024

Cries of the Unheard Collection

Twilight

The twilight appeared slowly

with the announcement of the night 

not far away as the streetlights

hummed, their soft gaze adjusting 

to the fading of the day.  For a moment,

that never-never land of in-between

felt real as if a dream had crossed 

the border with that slight fear of dreams

becoming real.  “For a moment,”

that phrase that teases, tries to seduce 

time and place and feelings echoing off 

the streets and buildings and traffic lights

as if the next moment would hesitate its 

arrival.  I turned the headlights on, twilight

nearly gone, night coming on, the village

in the rear-view mirror.

-Byron Hoot

https://www.facebook.com/hootnhowlpoetry/

Tracker

Head bowed and back bow-bent, 

He follows smells so slight, some scarce and dainty scent

Until defined, the imprint of time's tiniest creature.

No feature, save leaves and mud trail rent by forest floor foraging;

Mere meager mouse teasing hungry hoot owls.

Onward tracker tracks toward bigger, braver game,

Sniffing stillness, staleness stained moist moss, 

Until denied, the impish imprint of time's timidest creature.

No feature, save hoof hole and white tail flight flagging fright bounding;

Freckled forest fawn fleeing strange shadow sounds.

Onward tracker tracks toward bigger, braver game,

Snooping holes and haunting territorial tree lines,

Until designed, the imprint of time's tamest creature.

No feature, save padded paw print and claw bent on twilight twig breaking;

Howling hope's hound hunting his missing master.

Onward tracker tracks toward bigger, braver game,

Sensing seasons sheered by bark scratch shavings,

Until defied, the imprint of time's toughest creature.

No feature, save tree stripped and sapling split by muzzle rousted rooting;

Brawny brown bear lumbering lazily aloud.

Onward tracker tracks toward bigger, braver game

That seeks shadowed shelters from weather's cruelty,

Until devised, the imprint of time's thinkingest creature.

No feature, save smoldering coals and steaming soles, abandoned in waste's haste;

Mindless mad man amidst and against his nature.

Onward tracker tracks toward bigger, braver game,

Sorting, shifting torn countryside fenced and civilized,

Until despised, the imprint of time's terriblest creature.

No feature, save eaten earth, stolen shade and seething streams of invasive ingenuity;

Maniacal manmade machines, tearing turrets 'cross tracker's tracks.

-P.S. Colley

March 1993

Rev. Nov. 2024

Songs of Appalachia

Four Fifteen

Who will volunteer to search yesterday's years for buried slightest traces

Of a people born to be weather-torn from their prized and precious places?

No more can chore of labor's scorn, scar or mar their worry-ridden faces

That rest in peace from harm, wrapped in gentle arms of God's embracing graces, For a torrent bound to drown a culture found its way through golden ages, To wash lives away with torrid tempests fed by unbound river rages.

Who will volunteer to scout today's fears led by dog-sniffed scented traces

Of a people floating on rapid's rafts carrying death on frozen faces?

While stricken scavengers stumble cart-wheels 'cross musty mud-washed lawns, Filling filthy pockets with trinket treasures of the "somewhere up and gone", Magic moments from a trouble's rubble 'cross the sad-tossed curious minds, Seeking meaningful understanding of God's will, drawn dark between fine lines.

Who will volunteer to nurture a nature, proven cruel and most unkind,

While a people's children sob away laughter, after deluge of mankind?

Where crowds of boots stomped flat-foot romps to rowdy Saturday night jamborees, Half-sipped sarsaparilla soda pops strewn atop mountains of piled debris,Shiny shards of shattered mason jars adorn treetops wind-freed to fly,

Weary roots worn-torn defy the storm to stab the tearless cyclops eye.

Who will volunteer to unbury lingering corpses of unforgotten ghosts,

Once glad people who danced to love song romance in kin begotten hosts?

The weary woke singing on Sabbath mornings, crowding sunlit parish pews,

Through stained glass windows, tear-gaze grieved, bereaved epitaph's graveyard news. Life storms wept by their mourning loved ones, overflowed creek banks swelled with sorrows. "Old Rugged Cross" sang their loss and bore aloft their soaked hopes of tomorrows.

Who will volunteer to rebuild years of modest memories fondly cradle-rocked 

As people brought forth worth from the rich furrowed earth a harvest fully stocked?  Now the plow unearths remains, bones washed by pounding rains to rot and rest alone 

In solemn mud bank graves they spend eternal days far from their comfort's home. Stain dirtied curtains flap full fury as lost hopes hurry-drift downstream.

A handmade "Bless this Home" embroidery, no longer cushions night's safe-sleep dreams.

  

Who will volunteer to feed starved years of poverty's meek and meager favors,

Met by a people's care to freely share with others, with friends, with neighbors? 

A handy Country Store sinks ruined into a rubble on boggy ground,

Penny candy sticks in lumps of icky licorice and soggy sweet horehound,

Clumped gobs on dank planks split-splintered waste on a damp sawdust windswept floor Scraped by shovels, raped by whisk brooms, that gaping workers leaned against the door.

  

Who will volunteer to bind the beaten heart that bleeds tears of travail's pain,

Healing people battered, walking wounded, that they may rise to thrive again?

Broken clock hands no longer tick moments, tock seconds, or chime happy years, Fiercely flung from a wall, time can no more recall its rusted, crusted gears. Forever will it scream four-fifteen, when deep night fell into a hell-drenched day. Fate's wicked whisper turned mean, spoke the name, "Helene", then churned men's lives away.

P.S. Colley

Nov. 2024

Songs of Appalachia

 

The Accuracy of When

When the Stella Magnolia leaves

are all on the ground, I will know

fall has ended.  The melancholy complete,

the time of bare, naked trees reaching

up, digging down, ready to show their

winter strength – the holders of the dreams

of spring, a certain prophecy.  

That time is not now, nor will it repeat

with any exactitude of what has gone

before.  Consider the divine,

the nature of nature’s beauty,

furious storms, the afterglow.

Then speak what’s been shown in silence,

the only language fit for what cannot

be spoken of but known.  No belief, no

argument, but knowing “this is this,

that is that” and no fear to live

what’s been given in the way 

a leaf falls to the ground,

the way that feels like the lips

of your beloved on your lips,

that sigh escaping just before the kiss.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

Message in the Sand

Endless, timeless, barren, desolate desert,

Void of dewdrops precious minute blessings:

Our world, or His? It matters not.

As thirst's dry draughts tempt strangest thoughts

To wither; wishful, meager unseen visions.

Promises of tomorrow's rain smolder in sundrenched air,

Wisped away until they are and care no more.

So cruel crossing that bleak demon of a land,

Falling, Crawling, sifting momentary sands

Through hateful outstretched, tight clenched, hand;

One heavier foot tromping, mercilessly following another

Into that hopeless, helpless emptiness.

Now we become bleached, baked carcasses

Weak, weather-worn to leather. 

Can there be pain where there is no feeling?

Yet hearts still beat each bead of salty sweet sweat,

Regret no solitary tear left to shed.

Together tired, trudging toward illusively

Faint, fragrant horizons of faux fantasy mirages.

Is there sanity in seeking, in searching wanton, wild wilderness

Until all hope's lost?  Wandering aimlessly,

Stumbling upon one living, eluding treasure.

One pure pleasure amidst the fatal doom,

A Mojave painted cactus, bright with bloom.

Some slight strength surges, as a happier hope emerges,

Drawn Deep into parched earth, roots shoot

Down to drown in life's clean, clear blood.

Hastily hand in sand scrawls each awkward word:

"I go ahead to seek an oasis."

-P.S. Colley

Rev. Nov. 2024