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?
Riding the bounds
Sailing high in creation
Things that astound
on the wing
in the deep
and under the ground
Yet consciousness
hard up against the glass
of this broken existence
Confiscated by the State
as a piece of degenerate art
then sold as a slave
to the black market of fate
I made the big break
for the heights of Montmartre
A spirited defence
yet only token the resistance
at the cutting edge
of forsaken circumstance
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
Walking the ancient paths
of my forefathers
to the mountain summit
from a favela slum
Singing a gypsy hymn
petitioning the heavens
for a taste of that
ever loving Kingdom come
Never the right answer
Always the wrong question
Is Christ the key to eternity?
Maybe the baby
has been unceremoniously
thrown out with this world’s
dirty bathwater?
Señorita, señor,
sing for me again
that sweet gypsy hymn
Desperate times
Sacred treasures
Give me
that old time religion
Walking the ancient paths
of my forefathers
‘Roll of Honour’
Words & Artwork:
~ david redpath © 2018
Photography: Linda Redpath
Faithfulness
through the wilderness
Climbing a mountain
of passion burning
from just a single spark
The pure fragrance
of holy incense
Your sacred presence
in the deepest dark
throughout the longest night
In the shadow
of your wings
I find peace sublime
Celestial rest in the midst
of an endless cosmic fight
‘The Game Changer’
~ by david b. redpath © 2018
The Nature of the game
Dissolving riches ?
Fleeting fame ?
Mad dogs barking
Angels falling
A world for you to tame
The flat screen
a most unwholly edifice
to a download scene
of gratuitous violence
Remote and depressed
that button of silence
Disorder is depleting
the span of my attention
Always fleeting
Consciousness
breaking the surface
The high road taken
past a world of distraction
to the fields
of contemplation
With little Miss Daisy
driving me
all the way
to satisfaction
In gratitude
for creation’s magnitude
I find happiness
beyond imagination
~ david redpath © 2018
Please excuse my little miss
spelling. Holy accidental !
Artwork:
‘The Forest at Fountainbleau’
~ by Henri Matisse
