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
Continue reading “Sailing High in Creation”
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
Can you measure
a bird of flight
by the weight
of a single feather ?
Can you look
into the face of a child
and not see
the deepest treasure ?
A time of purpose
beyond worldly surplus
the yet to be
hero of great valour
More precious
than gold or silver
that wide eyed innocence
The loving potential
of the truly essential
… Imaginessence
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
