Paper Kites and Day Lit Dreams By: William Burkholder A Publication of:
For those who read these pages now, and in the future, thank you. My passions and pleasure are derived from creating these works, these words, that live within me. I am thankful for the opportunity and the blessing to share them with all who have the thought of picking up this book to read. May you find peace within these pages, May you find insight via your own thoughts and recollections that these words might conjure within you. May you all continue to grow in the light of life’s blessed experiences. Peace William B Burkholder
Dusted Road I journeyed down a dusted road, high summer’s heat abiding, The dust devils dance from side to side, in rhythm with cicada’s rale… And the golden hawks sail on thermals high, rising, to meet a topaz sky. And the white noise rustle of cattail’s dance, dancing alongside a dusted road… Honeysuckle blooms, that catch the nose, O to lay under, in sweet repose, and dream of all the days like these, Along a summer dusted road.
Amnesiacs A societal amnesia exists, Where painted histories are all but forgotten. When visions, lethargic, rule, and sincerities towards our fellow man have waned to the point of blurred vision. Blind and deafened by self-serving rhetoric, and singular view. Collected among like-minded followers who follow ( unconsciously) dark paths. This accepted thing , engrained in the minds of all people, the act of “OTHERING.” Where beyond our paltry experiences, The idea of someone different, or misaligned with a perceived view is less worthy, and deserving of disdainful rhetoric. We think unconsciously, never seeing this thing as unjust, or cruel, yet it is a fact that this “OTHERING” exists, and it is the seed of determining the lines between ourselves.
Kites Set free O, that we could throw ourselves to the wind, and rise on wispy thermals, and sail among wind swept clouds and hearken to their inviting’s, a soft repose of altitude’s joy sailing, sailing, sailing. Under the gaze of sun kissed day When kites are cut from the lines that hold them. Freedom then to wander wholly To rise and fall in balmy breeze. And seek there heights And dreams of love Just sailing, sailing, sailing…
To Dream To dream of those things that have blessed our souls, To realize the trials levied upon us, Are great gifts, That elevate us to higher understandings, And greater compassions... Lest we forget, and repeat ourselves. And travel down tear laden paths once again. A total recall of words spoken, actions taken, Exercises in a reassessed mind set, Where we face our errors, and dispel them with acts of kindness, And forgiveness of others and‌ Forgiveness of ourselves. So let us remember, and face our reflections of yesterday, And compare them now to today. Let us make note of those weathered, wiser changes. And celebrate their blessings of growth, wisdom and insight.
New Day To the misfit wanderers To the philosophic who ponder The things of miraculous matters Scattered across the dendritic landscape of The mind’s eye. To those who seek the light in wisdom’s Re-assessed arms of love and enlightenment. Celebrate the joys of each breath, Imbibe the new day’s horizon, And all that it offers in the gift of its knowingness. In the gift of its mortal breath, In caress of sun kissed sighs. Abandon your questions of the wonder why’s, Seek the silence of serenities tumultuous horn.
Once Again, Freedom I sleep in the wood, upon moss laden beds. The canopy of green, and sunlight my shroud. Far from the din of city’s sound, Where peaceful quietude silently abound. Among my brothers meadowlark, Sister finch, and morning’s dew. The fallen oak my reverent pew Where I Basque and meditate silently. Fanning ferns to keep me cool, And clear blue waters to sustain me. Sustenance, solace, serene paradigm, Collectively fed from places such as these. O that the shadows cast from dusky tired skies, Could illuminate this place once more. That I could once again, Imbibe its sweet, sweet flavors, And taste this freedom once again.
Sun’s Rise Shattered evening, and sun’s rise to heal. A virgin dawn wakes and caresses my eye. The flutter of wing and Jay’s alarm, With the coyote’s hasty exit. The nocturnal retreats to familiar dark places… Dew laden hay fields open their eyes and greet the day’s first kiss. And dusted road comes to life with busy morning warriors. Trucks, and tractor, bike and car… All bound for places that they do not want to go. O, that we take such innocent days and turn them into nothing, where we darken them with lignite thought and negative energy… The purest moments of one’s life, The openings of each new day, The touch of its sweet embrace, natures love, un-abashed, pure in simple terms. With simplistic light and natural grace bestows its gifts on us.
SIGHS There are days when we waken to longings unfulfilled, That feeling that something better exists, This thing, Just out of our reach. We are consumed by its beckoning That tease that says, “Your almost there, but not yet.” It is within the Poet’s realm, to seek those answers, To seek that destination, This village of perfect understanding. We live for those moments of Alliterative longing, When we can convey the heart’s mystery, The heart’s passion to share with the world These discovered hopes and dreams, Wisdom’s assessments, Vision’s restored, Articulated longings Conveyed in words. Utter those sighs, And in all your whys, Find that which you seek Upon the page.
The Flexibility of Water Brooks running in rippled mystery, stone babbled cacophony, White noise crescendo within white wigged rapids running. Stones awash in journeys incessant, ocean bound, the water flows. Change is never ending. The river never ending. Re-incarnated to cloud, and rain, and snow. Dancing sky tells the tale of sunlit days to come, leaving pallored shades of gray, to rest on banks of rivers running. I shall follow the river, and the water’s flow, To be taken up in its loving arms, And commune in cloud and sky, Letting go of human alibi. Today, I shall be as the water, I shall conform to the obstacles laid before me, and simply flow around and beyond them. And leave them simply where they lay.
The Forgotten Plain tree, Plain faced, No oaken beauty beset upon it. Curley twig And crooked sprig No great cedar towering Orphaned child Meek and mild Child of man Devoured Cowering under bridge abutments No roof to shelter and warm her With a drop of water And a hand of Love She, yes she could rise And tower over all the land Like a tall and mighty Giant Replete with glories of Love bestowed She can rise above This disconnection O, this plight of many War torn Forlorn And forgotten.
The Hearts of Men On Infertile fields where the fallen lay, strewn with lead and hateful ideal. The Raven makes his bloody rounds, seeking its daily meal. Under clouds of cordite smoke, bent and broken steel, The view I see, seems to me, so utterly surreal. That this inhumanity upon our brothers, still rules the hearts of Men.
The Last Kiss The last kiss of winter falls coldly upon my cheek. An indifferent caress to say the least. It sees the rise of spring like tidings, sensing that its end is nigh. When white blankets shall turn to water, sustaining warm descendants. And color resplendent, shall replace white wraps, And ferine sounds rejoice, from sleepy cave, and den alike, Spring like eyes shall open wide, bidding the snow adieux. The last kiss of winter, come’s to me in a bitter blustered farewell. I shall not pine, nor lament its absence, but welcome it none the less, come October.
The Mold Makers Squirreled away on a back lit stage, a dusted page of memory. In the wings and always will be, Never drifting too far away. Some things come and fade away, While others linger and always stay, Just outside the periphery of one’s day to day‌ Experiences, the mold maker. The collective rendering. Always a work in progress. We are but dust and clay, Each the sculptor of their own design. All affluent in beauty, Do not let circumstance dictate your shape. But let those experiences inspire something greater than that sum.
Walking in a Dream That other earthly medium, Where silken treasure lives, and gifts of serenity are plentiful. A breeze of sunlit warmth, balmy and inviting, caresses my cheek, and renews in me the spirit of life. “Tis where I recognize and appreciate the smallest of observed things. A colored petal of a flowered gift, the buzz of the humming birds wing… and the smells of aromatic bark and umbered leaf. A natural symphony for the senses. A never ending crescendo And I, the joyful witness. Experiencing the gifts of this day…
Winter Pines Winter pines waking, throwing off the fluff of winter’s wig. The bluster of a December breeze, The undoing of its resting place. Teflon of sorts, un-scathed by frigid calamity, un-marked by cold intents, How shall we wake, when cold winds visit themselves upon us? Shall these things adhere us to hardened ground, and opinions of diatribe and vengeant escapade? Let the winter pine in its humble existence, Teach us more than the meaning of simple branches dancing in a December breeze.
BONES Time to cast the bones once again. Mind speak saying that I have nothing to write. It may be the draw down from the holidays, or the draw down from finished projects in 14. Either way it’s unsettling, so in order to free myself of these literary doldrums, I shall write the bones of the day, of the moment, and of the hour. No real literary meaning, no real chisel, used to engrave thoughts in granite. Sanity’s sake states that ink and paper are meant for each other. A match made in a poetic heaven. These words, that paper, my daily bread. My sustenance, my salvation and sanity. Some have accused for vanities sake, for wanna be status, farrago’s of the ignorant I say. I needn’t concern myself with diatribe and disembodied hearts. Cold and stone like, Beating to subjective rhythms. Schisms and worldly pessimisms, hang in the air like the stench of decaying matter, sulfuric, mercuric in their rendering by those who seek havoc, rather than peace. Hey, in the end, they are just words, just thoughts, The conveyance of memory and experience, The assessed outcomes of a life lived. Set upon the page in ink, a story, a moment. A rendering of what was, and what might be. To dream and care and greet the morning air with deep inhalations of a new day’s gift. Sunlit caress of all those things that give meaning. That incite thought and inspiration. But again, these are just bones, just words, strewn across the table, placed there to sort and surrender those things that mean nothing. To pare from them to those things that mean everything. That inspire a step forward, another breath drawn in, and another horizon sought…
Azure Hues Hands raised to meet the sky, she prays for peace and healing. Under clouds of azure hues imbued in the embrace of serenity. ‘Tis no lament, nor cry this day. Simple peace and joy, the way. She calls upon humanity to finally open its eyes, And puts asunder doubts, and personal alibi. Seek the truth and see yourself, in reflective pools dancing. With hands raised up and celebrating clouds of azure hues.
Savage Reflection And while the peaceful slept, the savage sought its true reflection, and wished for another. It did not know that wishes are dreams and modes of self-denial; that they hobble true effort to improve upon one’s mindset and function. Alas, the savage sought revenge, upon the peaceful, sleeping. Why in place of blessed grace did it find itself on the short end? Such commiseration within itself. Jealous voices winning out. All while the peaceful slept. Peaceful yes, conscious, no. Compassions absent. Heart-ache that only the savage knows. Is it any wonder then, That the savage seeks a new reflection?
3 minute free write Seems as though the rain has stopped. The floods water’s torrents ceased, The conflagrations of inconsiderate deluge A gone and forgotten thing. Remnants found in mud soaked bottoms And washed out car and home Until next spring when the waters reside And all that are found is bone Bleached and begotten Never forgotten The search still carried on. Until the waters rise again In Oklahoma towns.
Willow’s Breast A fallen branch from the Willow’s breast, An Autumn descent, and earthly rest. Its Mother dances in blustered breeze. Shaking off its Summer leaves. Skeletal dame, left in the wake, Sleeping now till Sun’s first kiss. Blessed in views and visions clear, of Willow’s dance and sounds to ear, A siren’s call of Autumn’s voice. Shaking off its Summer leaves.
Weekend Rain They’re calling for rain this weekend. Just in time to be free from the trappings of a weekly schedule. Sodden incarceration, While peering through rain soaked windows. Dreaming of a summer Sun that is too busy to warm my bones. Conveyed on seasonal solar orbit. Writing the obit for this year’s warmth. The forest across the road, Waving farewell with umbered hands, Writing next year’s green dialogues for their descendants. Rooted bands, Curling up, Slowly finding its state of slumbered serenity. Natures indemnity, Reparations to come. When the birds have sung spring’s greeting. Cyclical as it should be, Yet I wait for the rain, And possibly, For the forecast to be wrong.
The Song of Gilgathane O Gilgathane, you sing in meadows of sweet spring choruses. Rhythmic waves of tall grasses swaying. Crescendoed trumpeting of white swan’s songs… Within the blossom of Summer’s cheek, You rise to meet their glories. Storied past, all but forgotten, A hopeful future awaits ye dearest girl. And come day’s end, you rest upon a bed Dreaming of fountain heads rapturous end. Serenade of water’s fall. Loons call, Cicada’s click, The white noise rustle of night things dancing… Gilgathane, sing to me of Summer’s caress. Give us this gift again, of renewed season, and warm melodies, of a balmy breeze across our brows. Gilgathane, great gift to man. Continue to sing in meadows of sweet spring choruses.
Under an Ancient Oak Her eyes, were that of a pale blue, and in them, they reflected the incessant march of northbound clouds. Under the tree in which she lay, the sun speckled her bed in the dapple of a day lit glance. September had come and gone. Now, in the first breath of October’s caress, She lay under a woolen oak, whose wig had just begun to change. She had told him that this was her favorite place, where she could lay, and sleep, and dream. Where the freshness of each day filled her soul and embraced her dreams of solace and serenity. They, together would often come and rest underneath the arms of this ancient thing. Laughing and discussing the days to come. The Love that they held for each other. The hopes and cares of two entwined in life. It was on this day, that he came for the last time. Bending over, and kissing each pale blue eye closed. His final gift to her, this place. The place where she would rest. Entombed in the earth under an ancient oak, Whose arms would hold her forever.
The Poets Hammer blows upon the anvil of creative curious design, All these smiths in an ink laden hammer. Poetic mixes, Kickin and spittin, On street corners, coffee shops, and cafÊs, Willing draftees in the army of rhythm Bent in lock-step to poem and rhyme Keeping time with the pulse of their pens Speaking and spittin of their now and thens. The fandango of words, Clicking upon the lips, Like black stilettos under sultry hips, The snap and clap in perfect time with metered Muses in the wings Keeping the eye on the rising crowd, Who seek the destinations of their truths. And we hammer them out in untamed fury, Upon this crucible of our lives, Forged and molded, As we the poets, Hypothesize‌
Torn Banners in Compassion’s Field Synaptic prolapse of human element, Un-developed mindsets stewing in Hypocritical hotbeds. Deaf to the far off cries Uttered by their own souls Seeking sedentary solutions To moral and physical challenge. Polluted mindsets, il-regret of burnt bridges, Fetid myco’s, The carriers of tribulated dream, And nightmarish chaos. Collective numbness, Collective blindness, Selective extinction of Societies… Passions of the heart On life support, Compassion, fashioned on a torn banner, Ragged and bloody, Yet on some fields, it still waves gloriously. Let this Breeze renew itself, And spread once again Throughout the vestiges of all men. Let there be a glorious breeze to tatter and sway The hearts and minds of a violent race.
Turn the Page Resolute in stature, in high standing with victorious Virtue and vehement articulation Of rendered raptures… Exotic fruit falling from fat tree’s Dusted with the skin and bones, the blood of the sower, the picker, The Writer… Meshed together in effort and purpose, Surpassed by those who take for granted, seeds planted. The ranting minions of self-proclaimed virtuosos In all subject matter Save for living. O, tis the rant of a roving poet, seeking rhythmic epiphany, rather than substantive rhetoric. Heretical to some, maniacal to others, Nevertheless, Soothing to me. Spit out the blood and the bones of pent up thought! Always praying to never see the drought of ideas and words and imaginative Joys! Rejoicing with ink and paper and tapping keys. Only substantive thought should rule the day… Feet on the ground, Pen in hand Moving, moving, moving Forward. Turn the page.
This Thing Called Man Revisited I sing within the embrace of a green meadow’s keep, Where I celebrate this life, and all that it means. When all seems lost, and ill-serene, I simply travel there in my memory. Communal salvation, Sugar for the soul. Where I let peace and simplicity, Take its toll. To venture out and extol These dreams, Is by far, A better gift to give. I sing within the embrace of green meadow’s keep, Where I celebrate this life and all that it means. Where cacophony’s masses lament each breath, Who seek to perpetrate dying and death. I travel to places un-seen by them, And seek meditative freedom. Far from dictates of fiefdom’s reign, Far from the perpetrators of humanities pain. Liquid pools of reflective thought, Rippled waves of hypocritical thought… For I escape myself, And those things I have wrought. For each of us, The keeper of the cage to this thing called Man.
The Tree That Bore Me I see the passing of my life in a falling leaf, And I am reminded that each of us have a season. Where our conception is bore from love, And our growth, The result of nurture and drought. It can be seen, it is remembered in mortality’s rings. Silent ovals, circular remembrance. Such is the season where I ponder upon such things. When I reap the harvest of life’s gifted wisdom. And in this realization, I find that the journey is accelerating. That Gravity’s summation is each man’s mortality. O that I would catch a youthful breeze, And be carried on the currents of youth once again, Carrying with me all that I have learned. But it cannot be, we stay attached to what we know, The tree, The weathered sentinel that taught us. Our greening, Our dependency came from their roots, Our history. And our independence; from the severing of youthful stem. However, the leaf’s journey is not that of a sheer vertical fall It is winding, wandering. The flitting in and out of happiness and joy, Of rain soaked, tear filled nights. Of mortal seasons, both warm and cold. And passionate summers hot and steaming. I will at some point find the earth, My final landing upon familiar ground. Where I shall lightly lay my umber body down, And return to the base of the tree that bore me. The Swing of the Scythe The Colored schemes of rhythmic reds Clash against the envied greens, Man and woman in its stead, Mycotic renderings of hate and dread. Crimson banners waved wildly about With screams of rhetoric and Biased louts. Walls erected, Neglected souls Self-inflicted
Predacious acts‌ While never learning all the facts. O to let the scythe swing, And remove this head! To Cleave it from the body of mankind. To wrest from its grasp All those notions Of pre-conception To seek redemption in the acts of humanity Rather than that of chaotic calamity‌
5 minute free write Cold hand , winters grasp, refusing to relinquish its hold. sun lit days seem far away, yet, live just beyond tactile cravings. This longing for the sweet caress of a sun lit dappled day. Under billowed clouds, the summer shroud of robin egg blues abiding. In patience’ time it too shall come. The seasons have a way of knowing. And in due time, within balmy breeze, we shall celebrate Summer again.
THE PLATITUDES Platitudes perpetuated, as though they were granite engraved epiphanies. Solely sanctified, surreptitiously, as though the night thief thought of his invisibility, truly made him unseen. The ignorant however, are always the loudest. Forever in the light of opinionated rhetoric. Bawling’s of Bombasticity. We see them for what they are.
Treasure O morning! wake and convey your gifts this day. In fluttered shadows of light and illumination. New day, O Blessing! Gilded coins of sun’s first kiss, cast upon my brow. A new entry in life’s book of greater things to come… This day, new, not fully seen. Therein lies the treasure, a gift on golden wing. Unopened expectations. As yet unseen, revelations waiting without ulterior scheme. Innocent discovery, new pages found, Winnowed darkness gone, and day lit dreams abound…
Free Write 10/12/15 Shadows and ghosts peer out from my memory. Always the purveyor of doubt and disdain. They care not for current wisdoms, New found lessons put into action. They, continue to haunt and peck away At confidence and creativity. Irrelative to the fact, That the power that they once held. Is no longer an issue. They no longer carry the summations of my introspection, Save for the fact that they are gone, dead, and buried. For yesterday was the reality of a broken dream, And today, all possibility exists. I do not mourn them. I celebrate today.
The Willow’s Whisper In and among the willow’s whisper, under dreams of a silver coined moon, hushed by the voice of a cool stream running. In memory and reality, when all is said and done, I wake each day to the memory, of the kiss of a silver coined moon.
Cloud Serenade There is a serenade in the clouds this evening, A wind driven song, It plays the notes of autumn’s lullaby. Gray cotton shoes Stepping into frosted realm of winters grasp. They sing to me of mortality, Of seasons, come and gone. Growth and renewal, Each of us just a wisp of cotton wool‌ Of casual cirrus beauty. Blown about by the whims of life, And all its seasons gifted to us. We come about but once, and come to wisdom under sun lit dreams and realization, Our exit at the hand of life, at times tempestuous, at times under dreams of serenities sleep. O, this serenade of the clouds this evening, They sing to me, This wind driven song.
Found poem Shelves of causes, Both found and lost Stacked in a reams of Altitudinal dreams Dusted, and busted Bannered and bandied Raved and ranted Tilted and canted Lever over Hinge joint Pile point Rust belt Of minds thoughtful and wandering eye Blinded by sight and deaf to sound Of future dream and reality Sectioned and sanctioned Judged and begotten Left to whither On shelves of Lost and forgotten dreams
Othering’s O these othering’s, that man alone bestows, Upon his kindred brethren, Piercing beating hearts. From far flung reaches, to nearby neighbor’s doorsteps, Flinging hate and rhetoric, Cold and hateful epithets. Engrained with fear and ignorant bawling’s Of lost and way ward souls. Goals sought in one upmanship, In power greed and war. This seething whore of apocalyptic mutterings. Payment levied in blood and tears. O that we could each of us, Seek the truth of kindness, Rather than the biting night, Of fearful, determinate blindness. These indifferences, as slight as they might seem, Are roots of the conception Of tearful, Broken, Dreams.
Sleep Among the reeds and rushes dry, She sleeps just under the caress of moon beams, In sleeping solitude, and vivid night dreams, Free of day lit ulterior scheme. To lay and rest, In silken repose, To wander in wisps of ethereal worlds, Where hate and harm are extinct. She sleeps, and dreams, She’s free and alive, In fractourous fantasy. For the sun shall rise And so will she, To world full of life, and twisted humanity.
Within all Souls The equative qualities of equality, Show themselves in the raised hands of freedom. The summation of all dreams realized, Ideals garnered over the history of all men. Who sought and seek The riches of their own minds and hearts. Free of chain and binder, Free of hobbled gait, Seeking the higher calling, Beyond Mycotic, searing hate. Freedom does night fly under any given flag, It blows in blustery beauty. Within all the souls of men.
Simple Tree The cast of its shade, The texture in its skin, Roughhewn, Furrowed, Often burrowed in. From carpenter ant, To pileated bird, Chipmunk, cardinal, Silly little wren. Morning gives me gifts of visions, Vision so sweet and serene. Takes me away from those lignite Depths, that I sometimes find myself in. Just a simple little tree. With leaf so green and brave. Gave me the kiss of inspiration, As I rest just under its shade.
Fissures of Men These fissures of Men, Deep, dark, Devoid of light and grace. The only spark of passion revealed, The flash of death from belching muzzles. Angered hate in eye for eye, Competing to see, Who the first is to die. Yes, Chasms black, Deep and cold “Tis no place For the heart to abide. Siege laid unto ourselves When fissures as these Are left to spread, When all that are left Are the dying and the dead. And in glories engrained We sing the refrains of Cause and bannered flags. And bury them in Heroes graves And widen the chasms again.
Soulful Song And her lute plays the melody of a spring chorus. Plucked in rhythmic meter. In crescendoed time with the swaying of daffodil, In the lofty flow of cotton wool, Drifting on the whims of breezes balmy. She sings in syncopation to rain’s gentle beat, And rolls in throe of passion, In the coming of Summer’s heat. Yes her lute plays the melody of seasons come and gone. Infinite lyric singing, Spring’s sweet soulful song.
The Boatman
O sand strewn witness, Of countless gentle wave, Of sun dipped dreaming Under balmy weathered hand.
Along shale steps remembered, And July cherries plump and bright, Overlooking gentle seas, On wind-swept starry nights.
On dustless oiled roads, Leading to the boatman’s path. O countless Gentle waves, Revealing seas of glass.
In feathered masses milling, The terns aloft and hovering Over boatman’s nets, And the balmy sea’s offering.
The seign, the dip, and pull, The day’s dollar brought aboard, The boat, the life and legacy, Is paid for another day.
These things of the heart These things of the heart, Some sustainable, Some not. The rhythmic beating of the souls voice, Pounding in the ear of he/she, Who lays their head upon the chest of a lover. Who seek to find the caress of serenity In the arms of another. Who, after days and months of discovery, Find that things are not, were not as they seem. Where this true love was but a dream, Replaced instead, with vileness, and anger, These things of the heart, Some sustainable, Some not. When the touch of lips to flesh, Sends the body into nervousness, Spinning and flipping, Like a wild, wanton, dervish. O, Yes, these things of the heart, Some sustainable‌ Some not.
Four Farthings Four farthings for a feathered thought Free of farce and useless farrago, Uttered There unto, The hapless, Clucking in cloistered garb of unforeseen historic misery’s. The original thoughts; burnt and blown away, Spread upon the winds of a perverted willowa. Cold and icy‌ Its sting, in its reality, Unforgiving, brutal, Yet truthful. A cold wind brings the eyes to a full open position. In its full sighted rendition, it can only speak the truth. Yet, salvation comes in the realization of this brutal blow. For the summation of this storm, is the coming of the warmth for what we will ultimately know. Four farthings for a feathered thought. The greatest of riches bestowed.