The Dart

Scrolling textures pierce my bloodshot eyes like arching darts aimed at red balloons,
my destiny lie elsewhere, someplace crisper.
Counterfeit facade arrayed along my visor, screechin' sermons like a gray buffoon;
yet she is waiting patiently -- nary a whisper

I drift on, daydreams wander,
wondrous words devastatingly aligned, persuade my mind:
she has scribed them down.
Remove this tumultuous tempest from my brim, 'till I find:
green forest, peat and bog around

Hillsides arise, inclining greater than my city ground;
out there, beyond, is peace and true prosperity;
abstract professions found, intermingled sumptuous forces newly unbound,
can be yet achieved, lest I dawdle aged superfluity

shrieking lucid orange annunciation,
time to change your softly dampered brilliance,
unloosen dexterity, sharpening a once minced temperament,
leap-frog wild decorum, rediscover simple eloquence.

The dart has pierced my wading brow,
And now I find,
my world is left behind:
art supplants artificial mind

A vale of darkness reins the lesser season,
far below the south of forest land;
Between thick trees of pine and peaks of white,
A clay brick path wanders through these somber hills

Water of the brook babbles through an olden hamlet
like a brimming broth before a lazy meal
laced with capsicum pepper mixed with cutlet
quaffed with red and white of dry appeal

Unburdened folk carrying caboodle
fish the meadow beyond cathedral way
celebrate sandpiper calling ruff and reeve,
revive the ancient wanton tumultuous ways

Sweet burning desire sings supple sound
against a sage of dissonant musical saws.
Lanes lined with new houses,
carved gables, tiered windows, overhanging roof

A nature park is where I want to be,
this ancient time is land I long to feel,
juxtaposed between my now and future free,
elixir of the woods hence I may heal.


Douglas Bauman, Dec 2008