no answer

all those leprechaun dreams,
strung together
to appear to be
more than they really were,
all now hanging sadly
from dirty rope clotheslines,
flapping in the breeze:
they bring me to my knees,
and I abort my carefree self,
and ponder upon the elf
that no longer aspires --
who is left with nothing,
no quests,
nothing left,
no desires --
not a thing that makes
the heart race, or
give bright color
to a sullen face:
merely a
trudge
down to the still waters
of life's shore;
nothing more,
nothing more,
as existence becomes
something of a bore:
a chore,
a rote to be merely
carried out,
something to do,
something to do;
all that one could create,
abandoned,
desolate,
in favor of nothing,
enamored of no one,
left to starve,
with not a morsel
to invigorate;
life's time travels
much too fast, and
not even the strong
can outlast
its speeding course,
delivering shadows
and ultimately,
remorse,
for all that is passed,
unacknowledged,
unknown,
disregarded,
context blithely
retarded;
it is only
in the full moon,
that all we should see,
is rendered:
on hind legs,
as we howl,
we catch a glimpse
of what went by us:
the mysteries
of this life,
which laugh,
and still defy us;
we stand still,
and perhaps,
for just a moment
there courses
through us
a silent thrill,
as we see that
purpose,
fully revealed
to those kneeling,
and also to those
standing,
this answer,
this vignette,
that today we still seek,
and its absence,
and our presence,
makes us evermore
weak;
buoyed by myth
and fable,
we stumble on,
each day able only
to see the next one,
and the next one,
and the next one,
until we are at last
undone,
and the story is left
to be told
to those now young,
soon to be old:
there is no answer.



March 29, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

this lifelong lust

caffeine,
nicotine,
morphine,
any inbetween,
I'll take it,
if it will help me
make it
til sunrise,
til I see Your eyes,
lighting
the way:
sending all those
voracious coyotes,
and cougars,
away;
blending the good
with the bad
and the happy with
the sad,
and making every
moment that we have had
seem sacred,
spotless,
and naked;
oh lover of mine
You bend back my spine
and render me sublime,
and I take it,
I could not fake it,
could not break it,
even if I was to fall
out of rhythm
and rhyme,
out of continuity
or time,
I could not shake it,
I would not make it,
if it wasn't for You;
porcelain dreams,
and plasticine porters
always diverge,
and leave us a bit shorter,
on the verge,
as we struggle to divine
what is yours, ours, and
in time, everyone's,
the whole of all of us,
the swallowed-up of us,
the giant must-have-of-us,
the present day version
of Galápagos;
and so our self-torment ends,
when we toss our heads back,
and make amends,
for the foole in us,
for the things we do not discuss,
for the ways that we distrust
all that is inside of us,
all that we must,
abide,
and decide,
which is part of us,
merely a bit
of a much larger thing,
or every ounce of
this lifelong lust.



March 28, 2010, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

Joe Cocker at Woodstock 1969

he was as spastic
as he was fantastic,
and his rendition of
"With a Little Help from My Friends,"
went about as magically
as John's murder went tragically,
only eleven years later;
makes me wish,
that all of us
had been surrounding him
that night:
I would have gladly taken that
bullet;
and I am guessing
that Joe would have as well.



March 27, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

The Most

loose,
tight,
invariably
in-your-face,
yet consistently
contrite:
I love Her;
whipsmart,
with a golden heart,
She disarms me;
aloof,
engaged,
alarmed,
enraged,
She is passion's
throw-rug,
set down
to secure me;
She waves off
my exultations,
naming me
lovestruck,
under the influence
of too many
exclamations,
but I know
of this certain
glow, that comes
from Her, and so,
I raise my glass,
I make a toast,
to the one woman,
in all my life,
who is The Most.



March 21, 2010, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

Dixie Chicks

we surfed to the edge of the stratosphere
on pixie stix, and we realized where we were,
and held our breath, listening to Dixie Chicks;
we walked the straight and narrow,
unsure where it would lead, and we saw
the late and the fallow, as they wasted all their seed;
we tripped the light fantastik,
and it kicked us in the ass, and we made ourselves
elastic, making love in meadow grass;
we rocked the house all-nightly, and we made ourselves
look sprightly, but it was ever just a game,
by a different name, pretty much all the same,
and we had ourselves to blame;
we bit off more than we could chew,
hey, don't laugh, it could happen to you,
just always remember to carry a knife and fork
in your pocket, no, don't be a dork, not the shirt one,
the one that folks don't see, the one that let's freaks
be freaks, like you and me, that hidden one;
oh, and remember always that when you "assume",
you make an ass out of "u" and "me";
and folk think that I am not progressive:
I can't wait for Aetna to get obsessive:
so punch the buttons, baby, and
unscrew them, and put on "Fly."




March 22, 2010. Health care for all humans.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.