live

dav

Two lakes, side by side
Called twins, but not to the naked eye
Nestled beneath towering Sierra cliffs
Peaceful, serene, and ready for a dip
They are part of what calls to me
“Come, adventure, live, see.”

Two lakes, side by side
Called twins, but not to the naked eye
They greet me when I arrive
I can hear them when I try
Close your eyes and listen for their whisper
“Come, live, see, adventure.”

Two lakes, side by side
Called twins, but not to the naked eye
Like guardians to the high mountains beyond
They’ll let you pass if you can hear their song
Always, always, I hear their tantalizing hum
“Adventure, live, see, come.”

Two lakes, side by side
Called twins, but not to the naked eye
Their call does not come without a cost
But do not fret, lay your worries on their cross
The mountains can take as well as they give
“Come, adventure, see, live.”

shameless friend promotion 4

Bill, Bill, Bill…  Where is Bill?  Wait!  Not that Bill.  Bill Friday, of course.  The poet!  Though, it wouldn’t surprise me all that much if he knew Kung Fu too.  Anywho, this is another shameless friend promotion.  Have you read any of Bill’s poems before? You should.  I believe I’ve shared them before.  He has a knack for capturing a moment and then twisting on its head to make you think or to hit you in the feels or both.  Get his books.  Read them.  Expand your mind and your world.

A Death on Skunk Street is the first stand-alone book by Los Angeles poet William S. Friday. Subtitled, “…a life in poems”, the book is both a remembrance, and a look forward, at what Bernard Malamud (“The Natural”) called, “The life we learn with… and the life we live after that”. Skunk Street is a work of visions, written by a blue-collar college drop-out with the eloquence of an angry Psalmist. Parts neon and noir, full moon and sunsets, and the words that come from feelings too often unexpressed. From loneliness in a sea of humanity to, comfort in the company of self. There’s blood, and brains, printed on every page. In the author’s own words… “Somewhere along the way, after all the years and all the experiences, you realize that the only thing you have to show for them is your recollection of them. And then, you write. So I guess I’d have to say that I’m the guy who writes what he remembers.”

Buy your copy here.

norm

dav

The green hills whisper their secrets of rain and sun.
The char from the summer fires isn’t gone or forgotten.
It rests beneath the lush grasses and vibrant bushes
And whispers its own secrets of flaming touches.
It pokes through here and there to ensure it is seen.
To be seen is to be remembered and that is everything.
For the summer winds will come again like always
And all it takes is a spark and the hills will be ablaze.
When the hills go up, some homes will surely follow,
They line the ridges and fill the canyons and hollows.
This cycle repeats every year, from green to brown to fire.
We sacrifice much to the pressures of the social norm pyre.