Traveling Pilgrim

 

Riding in the back of a Greyhound

Writing of cities and backcountry

Howling out the wide X-ray window

Without any doubt of my eternity

Picked off the raw face of The Christ

Is the stinging, numbing thorn in my side

As the small horn that is every mountain

– every kingdom

Tries to force knees and floor to collide

But I travel not knowing where I rest

In the shadows but not entirely of them

Not a tourist – but not without vision

Of the field I bought with every poem

The stanzas follow the rolling hills

And the hills roll out a destined line

Among the tossed wheat and tares

And from the press to a perfect wine

Intoxicated or darting the bitter toxins

Feeling void or avoiding the darkness

Accusations shoot like venomous darts

– but I am shielded

For outside the window is ever-brightness

As the sunrise baptizes me in dancing fire

And with power beyond all imagination

(Though at times my body may betray)

I can do all things – even move a mountain

 

Dave Douglas is a regular Synchronized Chaos contributor who can be reached at carpevelo@gmail.com