Golden Apples Picked In The Sun

Golden Apples Picked In The Sun

When the journey’s over and the home street’s been done
When contemplation has wrought the glory that was won
When acts of kindness and meaningful connections summed
Was the journey worth the toil, memories cast, indelibly strung?

Was the perilous journey, fear seeping from every lone pore
Through the mountains of the Bend that had no seeable end
Fear amplified by loneliness and the absence of your friends
Fear inescapable, grit your teeth, brace yourself, look for an end

An apple won for doing what had to be done in the dark out the park
Cocooned for a day sleep caught up ready for a lark in the park but
Curvy mountain roads now an icey grip on my heart my soul yet
Possessive of my parts so I hovered in the foot hills of flowers

Picking more golden apples in the sun, until my courage won
Northerly driven to partake of missions, mountains and dunes
Railroad intersections, emotional interdictions and memorable
Apples picked with a Missouri homesick blue-green-eyed native

Where pictures of waterfalls stir happy memories of Missouri
Given for offerings to blue green eyes to save my soul from
Misery of empty paces in the soul for filling needs making whole
Yet as I looked back I could see golden apples in eyes of blue

Ancient adobe mission churches, wise-cracking bar tenders
With no social graces, a Walmart man who bought me dinner
In ancient lodgings where no one remembered when building
Was art and rose from the ground rock, earth and limb intended

Earth-bound a part of the ancient mother who protected her own
Destroying foreign encumbrances like toothpicks and foam
Earth friendly to earth timber to timber snug in winds of November
Gathering the cold in its bowels for hot summer days in July

Undulating sand moved daily by the fickle winds, no base for
Mountains that stand tall within, and dip their tops in white powder
A reward in the morn for staying and waiting and more apples
Picked for green eyes in waiting for poetry picked by me to test

Common intuition and green eyes glowing picking her favorite
A task for the unknowing but eyes never lie if let into them by
Brave souls bared emotions ripe for the reaping, a dangerous game
For the way out may never be found and two wounded hearts cry out

Why is it faces lie dim in the past and souls bared by a look may lie
Unforgotten when shone in the glow of golden apples picked in the sun?
Never to be set free, for a look into the soul that bonds with me is from
Picking apples of gold upon the tree that grows twined in the soul never free.

Homeward bound , but never to be, the same soul as I used to be
For apples of the soul shared spontaneously and free forever free
Soul’s vulnerability spread across the land forever changed, you see,
Communion of commonalities exchange to be free of emptiness in me

Universal belonging is it’s longing for brotherhood in hearts of men
Places of refuge on a cold night by the fire of passion and perpetuity
Fires so old that remember only sensations no words to describe
Freedom to roam the wilderness in sight and a refuge in the night

As far as I can see across the plains immersed inkiness like a sea
Schooners so vast in magnanimity ply the skies religiously looking
Looking for me? Small and innocent yet large and free in me lie
Memories of the souls, golden apples given to me in sacred enimity.

Schooners boiling, cannon in their hawsers loaded booming harmless
Warning perhaps that apples aren’t free, not knowing I already paid
Inestimable pain did in vain escape my hands of eternal grief paid,
Sonnets to the gods that be and let me leave that awful bloody tree

Cannon booming, jagged golden spears falling short , weeping pettily
Untouched by tempestuous wrath and jealousy for they could not leave
Tantrums of missing me, but the gods remembered rhythms and verse
Prisoners of the skies of the eastern plains since leaving the sea behind

Apples of gold picked in the sun see how they glow but be thou bold
You must pay the price a piece of your soul never to return but a
Haunting memory that never grows old that must be told in reverence
For sacred is the love you sold for loneliness on the road the golden glow

Golden apples picked by we that glow in love and silent sacred reverie.

Carl James

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *