Six long weeks
roaming the dry crust
of a sun burnt wilderness.
Nothing but rocks and red dust.
The hot desert winds
that flay the skin
… now murmuring,
with words broken
of souls lost and forsaken.
Best I finally surrender
upon this alien terrain
the haunted trauma
of a time I’ve tried in vain
. . . to never remember.
Summer seeking
somewhere over the horizon
under a foreign sun
The warm neopolitan nights
revealing northern stars
Gazing at a stranger moon
bearing ancient scars
At a loss …
the Southern Cross
even the Milky Way
seem to have somehow
all gone astray?
Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie
(edited) ~ by Bob Dylan
When yer head gets twisted
and yer mind grows numb
When you think you’re too old,
too young, too smart or too dumb
When yer laggin’ behind
an’ losin’ yer pace
In a slow-motion crawl
of life’s busy race
No matter what yer doing
if you start givin’ up
If the wine don’t come
to the top of yer cup
If the wind’s got you sideways
with one hand holdin’ on
And the other starts slipping
and the feeling is gone
And yer train engine fire
needs a new spark to catch it
And the wood’s easy findin’
but yer lazy to fetch it
And yer sidewalk starts curlin’
and the street gets too long
And you start walkin’ backwards
though you know its wrong
And lonesome comes up
as down goes the day
And tomorrow’s mornin’
seems so far away
For the Loving
the Loathing
and the target
who never stops moving
For all the hurt who fell
chasing their own tail
through a reflection glistening
Four sheets to the wind
and under the full sail
of a fevered imagination
There are two kinds of people.
Those who are forever postulating
that there are two kinds of people.
And those that …
Judgement is a prerogative divine.
The reserve of He who weighs the
hearts and minds
… of all kinds of people.
Words & Image:
~ by david redpath © 2018
Watercolour
~ by Salvador Dali
