Firm
earth,
hard packed,
trails through towns,
and forests deep. Creeks
and sounds of wagon fleet — trudging feet.

cloud and mountain on blue ground

© rl busséll 2018

Hot
wind
answers
long and short
as pine and needle.
Branch clings to stony ground through root.

pine and needle

© rl busséll 2018

Camels still,
still remember the water held,
held on shoulder, strong and well.
Well, deep and long.
Long their song. For that water, still,
is passed from well to urn and urn to tongue.

Still is that story sung,
in dromedary’s garbled tongue.
Of fair lady, she, so young,
and servant’s thirsting tongue,
and bangles-dangles strung
and nations, just begun.

You may think this all far-flung,
but I heard it while among,
among two camels slung.
Heard it, in their garbled tongue,
“angles-angles ung”.

Heard it while I hung,
tween two camels slung.
Heard it sloshing in their humps.
Heard it while twas sung
from old to young.

And if you listen strong,
you too may hear
what their ancients sung
in their garbled tongue.
“angles-angles ung”.

© rl busséll 2018

For Wendy, who loves camels.

camel © rl busséll 2018

Like the whirligig, she’s
trying to capture the wind.
Cervantes was never her friend.
Catching her breath, she spins
round again, then descends,
and tilting t’ward earth
she makes amends,
then begins,
again.

© rl busséll 2018

a sketch of Don Quixote

The stands are filled with
Saturday fans,
fathers and mothers and
remnants of bands.
Their song never quite
catches the beat
as a boy in right field
shuffles his feet.

Socks ever bunching ‘round
ankle and cleat
are old and ill fitting
as angles’ defeat.
His hands ever sweaty,
hoping never to meet
the ball from a hitter
and a face like a beet.

The clouds, ever present,
high soaring above
are captured and held
in the palm of his glove.
Aardvarks and bears
and a whole mess of hares,
all playing in fields of
sapphires and doves.

The bases are flush.
The crowd is now hushed
as the ump has just brushed
home plate from all dust.
The count is now full.
The pitcher now readies
the last of his eddies
as the batter un-dallies.

The boy in right field
hears a crack like a whip
as the ball from the batter
flies like a quip
then gets lost in the banter
of the clouds as they chatter,
and starts crashing t’ward
earth like a ship.

The crowd with a sigh
all follow the missile
then start to whistle
at the boy who’s all bristle.
His red starts to rise
as the ball that he spies
careens from the skies
portending demise.

Hope springs eternal,
so the boy starts to scurry,
though his eyes are blurry,
he seeks to get under
the ball and not blunder;
and taking a breath,
he holds up his mitt,
and prays the ball fits.

The fans are all hushed.
The boy is all flushed,
then the fire in his hand
screams out demands,
“get rid of the sting.
throw that darn thing!”
With a new found spring,
and all of his might,
that ball takes flight.

© rl busséll 2018

baseball field with clouds

When the rhythm of the sea
ripples against your knee,
and the pull of the moon
kindles your deepest swoon,
and heavens’ ladder falls
tinkling as scales from saint paul;
your eyes, brand spanking new,
see in a different hue.

And that open tomb
lies empty as a barren womb.
And Rachel’s cries are quieted,
for comfort is but trumpeted.

For the dream of the cloud
is to carry the Son;
and the dream of the mount
to reach for the One.
as the dream of the lamb
is to lay by the lion.

For David’s dance continues
despite Michal’s red hues,
and the sea’s song still rings
in the ears of all kings,
as the youngest yet question
in light of the goshen.

For trumpet not sounded
has already founded
quires compounded.

© rl busséll 2017

I always knew this day would come;
that the pack of carrion, ever advancing, would stop,
double–back and tear into your back.

Your hands,
they swallowed mine, like sand against a mountain.
I thought, that if I had more time, I could wear you down
and yet — time is an ever furtive lover.

My garment—torn, hangs upon me as gossamer wind, its warmth as winter.

– wide paned windows, laughter in the deep, Ford Theater’s most famous stainer, McBean and Glen — are all among my friends

— these are the memories of my childhood, the gifts you gave me; my treasure from your large open hands.

thank you for these jewels — treasure, that time nor thief can touch.

 — a poem written upon my father’s death

© 2017 rl busséll

Draped in blue she wept,
in the middle of the earth,
at the apex of the sun,
through the depth of the night,
when all the world circled round.

The wind blew from the east,
and with all the screams for revenge
on the day of the feast;
it was like being in the belly of the beast.
All she could do was stare at her feet
and weep, weep, weep.
Her heart pondering utter defeat
and feckless sheep.

The heart is the weakest,
strongest thing.
It clings to the edge
when the edge is gone
and hopes for another
when there is none.

Even the betrayer’s stretch
brought no amount of mirth.
The flowering Rod of Aaron
cut down by the shining krait
and all the sins that hound.

The belov’ed tapped her shoulder
bringing some amount of light
through the darkest of nights.
“It’s time to bury life.”

© 2017 rl bussél

it was the evening sun dipping behind
yellow-gray clouds that brought you to me.
like long forgotten fingers
tracing over unknown dangers,
a terra pericolosa – three;
all the warnings of the old maps enshrined.

dragons be there. travel with caution. beware.

the edge of the world is much maligned.
yet this is where we fit
dangling our toes in the deep
waiting for the shark to snip.
taking hands as we leap,
with our fingers, like our hearts, entwined.

the splashes we’ve made are all consigned
to the edge of our pool.
little one and little two,
both with hands so true,
that, though our chart was flawed,
like seeking youth¹ with the maps of song²,
i trust that michael will guard them from wrong.

for dragons be there. travel with caution. beware.

a finger of light through yellow-gray clouds

© 2017 rl bussél

1. the fountain of youth sought out by Ponce de Leon ↩
2. Su Song Chinese cartographer, inventor, statesman and many other pursuits during the 11th century.https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Su_Song ↩

the dappled daylight
plays pat-a-cake upon
her snow-like back as
salt and water trickles down.

the rhythm of the surf
softens hardened tensions
built from months gone ill;
she needs the silken down.

her dingy yellow hair,
failing like some grecian
story inked by melville;
her play for passion’s crown.

brushing tress aside, reveals
another someone’s life un-lived.
tales of hero and heroine unreal,
bringing fleeting hope, fictive.

looking up from france,
she takes a gander, just a glance,
at the clouds as they dance
like life’s ephemeral romance.

then back to all her vanities
and the pages’ banalities.
catapulting dreary life to faire
in the time it takes to stare.

still, the waves crash,
pulling sand to sea.

© 2017 rl busséll

the morning sky

she lay there hoping
for another spoon;
just a little more,
knowing it too soon.

a green eyed wonder,
her smiling hope clings
to long wandering dreams
and mountains unmoved.

a little death shakes.
une petite earthquake.
fells all her limbs;
giving voice to whims.

tree’s landing heard
amid forgotten forest
and soaring buttress;
ev’n babes are whispered.

oh, just a little more…

© 2017 rl bussél

black and white image of blanket

push’n air, push’n power
the smell of powder strong
sister moon’s sardonic smile,
she, casts her shadow long.

find’n fears’ darkest hour;
is this my only song?
quell’n the bubbl’n bile;
are all my mem’ries wrong?

mid the mêlée i recall
a reb hang’n from a high place
his young and long’n face
turn’n blue against the fall.

i’m lost among clang’n saber,
flapp’n tent, youth held dear.

oh, let my ink sculpt words with force.
i’ll wait for others to read this war.

my nightmares stretch
from dawn to down.
the kill’n’s never done;
my bȇte noire’s fevered retch.

blood clothes the fields
like flam’n lilies
sett’n fire to hard bless’d word;
wee earless lambs without a shepherd.

jb’s body still lies a’molder’n
and all those souls a follow’n
lay beside his molder’n
await’n for the dawn’n day.

© 2017 rl busséll

light breaks
in flashes magnificent
and small utterances.

hack rakes
use congress, belligerent;
set fires, purulence,

breed quakes,
crack people, ineloquent;
worlds crash, cacophonous.

bulwarks
not toppled, accommodate
forts, hard, autonomous.

© 2017 rl bussél

tree in evening light

the skipping dirt
puddles around an ancient tree.
as a slow and winding breeze
pushes her to me.

her crinkling skirt
flashes brightly white, faintly oui.
as a small bee buzzes, flees;
nimble eyes, hands, knee.

me, awkwardly curt,
stumble greetings, small, barely wee.
as clouds high and lofty, tease;
wafting salt and sea.

pink corollas flirt.
fleeting petals fall, shaking free.
as this small mouth utters pleas;
hoping she could we.

© 2017 rl bussél

The moon hung there
like Cyclops' lazy eye;
yellow against an onyx sky,
more foul than fair.

No hazy memory, this:

“There is no time to waste,
you must with haste.
the ruler’s gone amiss.”

Put to flight by the Lie.
Fleeing from that pesky blowfly.

"Listen! flesh tears"

Red runs the halls.
mothers, fathers, all,
avoid not the squall.
yet here Abel calls.

“Leave the leaven there.
there is no time to spare.
grab our bundle-fair,
to where there is no snare”

“Hush, hush, my sleepyhead.
We rush!
Before this house-of-bread
runs red,
until that man lies dead.”

So, Ishah-new,
with her Apple-true,
lapis lazuli draped,
quietly escaped

to hide from Herod,
amid sphinx and sand;
life, near death, so grand—
veiled by pyramid.

© 2017 rl busséll

Postscript

“Now after they had left, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, “Get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you; for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him.”

When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had learned from the wise men. Then was fulfilled what had been spoken through the prophet Jeremiah:

A voice was heard in Ramah,
wailing and loud lamentation,
Rachel weeping for her children;
she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.”

Matthew 2:13-18

Inspired by the gospel of Matthew 2:13-18, the poem’s an imagined exchange between the Angel, Joseph and Mary. The first voice the Angel’s speaking to Joseph, the second, Joseph speaking to Mary, the third, Mary speaking to Jesus.

The Angel

No hazy memory, this:

“There is no time to waste,
you must with haste.
the ruler’s gone amiss.”

Put to flight by the Lie.
Fleeing from that pesky blowfly.

"Listen! flesh tears"

The warning comes to Joseph through an angel in a dream, but is not hazy, it is solid, and Joseph is attune to God and knows how to listen.

“Listen! flesh tears”, Herod is seeking the death of the child-king. Jesus is a threat to Herod, the King of the Jews. The “Lie” is the Father of Lies, Satan, the Great Deceiver, the “blowfly”, Herod the Great, who will die before the Holy Family will be able to return to the Land of Promise.

“Red runs the halls.
mothers, fathers, all,
avoid not the squall.
Yet, here, Abel calls.”

The world is changing and no one will avoid this change. The moon and the stars are realigning. The rulers of this world are falling from their high places (Luke 1:52) and the blood of Abel still calls to God for justice to be done. (Genesis 4:10)

Joseph

“Leave the leaven there.
There is no time to spare.
Grab our bundle-fair,
to where there is no snare”

“Leave the leaven there”: we must, with haste, away as our forefathers had once done. We cannot wait to let the Bread-of-Life rise in this House-of-Bread, Bethlehem. We must escape and fly to Egypt. God is full of irony. Where once our people were enslaved, we, are going to flee, so that our people will be free forever. Our little bird must avoid the snare of the fowler.

Mary

“Hush. Hush, my sleepyhead.
We rush!
Before this house-of-bread
runs red;
until that man lies dead.”

Mary awakens the sleeping Jesus explaining why they must rush away from Bethlehem, the House-of-Bread. Mary is predicting the death of the innocents and their return after Herod’s death.

Finishing up

So, Ishah-new,
with her Apple True,
lapis lazuli draped,
quietly escaped

to hide from Herod
amid sphinx and sand;
life, near death, so grand—
veiled by pyramid.

Ishah, pronounced “eesha” and translated, “women”, is the name of Eve (the mother of all the living) before she and Adam (man) were expelled from Eden. The Apple-true is the Promised Fruit, Jesus, who will break the world to remake the world, bringing truth and life once more to the dead, dying and parched earth. In Egypt, among the monuments to death, among the sand, among the solid veil of pyramids, among the memories of slavery and the great serpent, they will escape death so that the Son of Man, will come out of Egypt, out of the land of Goshen to dwell in Nazareth. (Luke 2:23)