Forgotten Along the Trail

The full fields of dandelions popped in ripples
as a breeze moves along strings producing
sounds vibrating as a single drone affixed
within the multitude of green blades each
one holding up a petaled face, round and
yellow centers with white light streams
flowing out in brief stubs for want, of trying
to reach what burns intimately far, away
past the chill, what was thought, was night
but merely turning; a flung axis caught
within the bend of actuality by gas and stone.

Fields affixed and flung of dandelions, each
vibrating in the blade of drones holding up
the yellow, stunted stubs in white briefs
trying intimately to reach past night the chill
of thought caught bending like strings in
streams of burning actuality turning upon
mere centers of stone that pop with sound
when ripples round the petals caught.

while above, flying over this ghost
the shriek of prey in line
topples the erstwhile scenery

And the bean maker arrived with cast
iron gills rummaging under his cowboy
hat around the train of wagon wheels
that cut and creaked in tracks, made
from the many settlers gone before now
dead along the plots in buried thickets
of bramble and mounds with little white
nameplates crossed as signs.

Spit on the ground the sizzle of beans
jeans stinking and adjust the crotch
technicians marveled the curious site
while collecting on their pay, the priests
in shambles foreclosed the night and bundled
up the day as magicians coiled the brandy sticks
while trotting amid their way. And beans smell
in the field reached out to gather up the ghosts
who passing through the cast iron clutched
nothing more to fill, above flying over
the prey lined sight, his hackles stirred
while fed the bean maker grizzled another
pump then headed off to bed. A thin spread
on blades beneath what never came to mind,
but did from bardic songs released in air
which wafted through his head, that wafted
under the frying pan he held for all
his worth and held his bedroll tighter still
within his turning world.

Dawn rose swift the priests might say
from what was turned away yet foreclosed
still in yellow pills the blood remained at bay
yet rising up from mounds of verse the cackles
and the sprigs, the forsworn gift of falling leaves
to point inside the dead, and dead not only
as coin rusts on to fill the hearts of men but dead
as voice in memories brings a life to all that's said
in memory of the gleaming fields that stumbled
from our chest and bitter deeds that made the day
when glory stooped to rest.