Poetry By Chuck


Dust of Sages



In the deep western desert
rides a hardened man
One who has beaten the odds
stacked against him in this land

His spurs are rusted n' his leather cracked
and his rope is frayed around his loosely packed pack
He studies the slightest change in his desert surround,
there a coyote or a rabbit or maybe a rattler's sound

Dust kicks up from hooves plodding on n' He frowns,
this remote place is a killing ground
Injun's are about and scalp poles are wound
with fresh hairs n' memories of bloody sounds


Then a change in the quiet dusty air
He pauses his ride and squints in a stare
Something moved and dust kicked up
from behind a boulder just past that twitch-up

Slowly he moved as if without a care
and dismounts while suspecting a snare
Perhaps an injun' that needs a ride
or a mountain lion gnawing on something that died

With steady movements he ties the reins
then acts as if each motion causes pain
Stretching n' slowly bending as if taking a break
he eases his pistol hiding the movement as if an ache

A shot barks out n' his blood flows
Dust puffs up from his clothes
He spins and drops trying for cover
but, there isn't any as he was to discover

His eyes begin to dim
as a vague form stands in front of him
He feels the sharp edge of the knife
as it pierces his skin n' begins to slice

He screams as his hair is lifted
and into death he has drifted
The sky fills with circling forms
vultures n' flies hungrily swarm