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No More Rider

Crossing the river
my horse went down...
no more saddle,
stirrup, bridle, sound.

No more guider
on his back,
directing footsteps,
no more slack.

Just the mix of mud and grit,
of rushing water, breath and spit.
and bodies in the currents grip,
or crevasse caught by thigh and hip.

Oft the river's repeated song,
of one way travel, hard and long.
Bodies breathless that were strong,
now to no greater cause belong.

© Brenneman T. May 11, 2004

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Colorless

Like wardrobes emptied of their charms
of lion's, witches, children's arms,
dreams steal through wood-walled fantasy
to fade the hopes of you and me.

Unwritten tunes play in our head
Without the blues of instruments, instead...
colorless, our notes rise and descend,
until in awkward, toneless pause they end.

© Brenneman T. May 13, 2004

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Mecklenburg Market

Why are the farmers markets open,
when no one's there,
when no one seems to buy a thing?

Pickin' the banjo, the old man seems happy.

Mosa purrs until the food is there.
She then eats, and is gone again.

The market's still open.

When no one comes, fruit rots in bins,
and apples hide their growing worms.

Tangelos develop blackened cores
under deceitfully thick orange skins,
or disintegrate in a grey-white dust.

Full of family smiles, the market's still open.

So the native starves for meat,
as he picks the fruit that will rot.

And so the rancher's body boarders scurvy,
as his T-bones sizzles.

Still, the market's open.
Come on in.

© Brenneman T. May 13, 2004

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