To be or
not to be.
you should always be.
be him or her
or be yourself.
be the best that
you can be
or the worst.
for Christ sake be something,
no one wants to be nothing
anyone can be anything
so there is no reason not to,
Majestically you lay
sprawled out in a heap of flesh
and bone, upon the damp pavement.
Your fur collects intricate patterns
of dew from the morning cold.
Generous amounts of vehicles glide
past you, ruffling up your matted tail. As
the sun rises up ahead, your body is cast
into a hazy glow of yellows, whites, and marigolds.
Your eyes stare, glazed over,
looking, but with out seeing; like
a porcelain doll upon a collector’s
shelf. A circle of red forms
a halo around your skull. In a few hours,
you will be lifted up, and laid upon a silver
lined bed. A sprinkle of earth will cover
your body and soak up the brilliant red.
You will be laid to rest peacefully, one on top
of the other, amongst the others
of your kind. Destined to be taken away
and entered into the promised land.
- E.M. Lockwood 5.2.13
Occasionally, I pick up my pen or computer and hash out a few lines of poetry or paragraphs for short stories. Usually I don’t share my work but now I’ve now decided to share some of it with you along with my Illustrations, wood burnings, ect! So if you want something to read now and again, check out my work and leave me comments or what not, thanks!
I am not a writer, just a mere human whose thoughts scamper across a page, incoherently forming a line or two.
- E.M. Lockwood 5.23.13
The people you find on the trail are modest people
full of wonder and exploration. They are kind folk,
who love to share their travels with you . If you have
a moment, sit and listen, you may be inspired
to follow along their path. The people on the trail are wonderers,
vagabonds. They adopt each other as family and their tent
as their home and all of their possessions they carry on their backs.
Occasionally, they have a four legged companion,
who carries his share of the load. They keep each other safe,
but rarely do they need to worry,
for even though the trail is treacherous,
and most find peril before the end,
these trails people are cunning and cautious
and will not happen upon ill fortune.
The trails people’s boots are light, yet sturdy,
accustomed to all terrain. The air is pure and high with altitude,
but their lungs have yet to reject it. Their legs were sore,
for the first fifty miles, but numbed out over the last two hundred or so.
They walk in their countries greatest back yard,
seeing it’s tremendous view. From a plane above,
they would never be spotted. To be off the grid, unnoticed,
is all they want. Left alone to speak with nature
and hear the eagle’s reply.
Talking incoherently with the babbling brook is exhilarating,
yet deemed unnerving as it turns into a rushing cry.
But the trails people do not worry, for it always evens out
into a calm brook once again.
This is where they rest their haggard bodies.
A perfect place to pitch their home and start a fire.
Their measly meals slopping down their bearded faces.
Yet, there is no haste to clean it off,
for their is no fancy dinner party to attend tonight,
or any night soon after. Their entertainment is the night sky
and the wolves provide the chorus. Lying in the tent,
open to the world, the sky is like no other.
Those little stars sparkle on, and on, and on, until the earth slopes away
into darkness. No observatory could compare to this natural beauty.
This beauty that is theirs for two thousand, one hundred and eighty one miles.
This is their trek, this is their journey. Many never dream of doing it,
some do and never get around to it. But those trails people do it,
sometimes more than once, and after completing a trail like this,
they’ll never be the same again.
- E.M. Lockwood 3.23.13