Dreams of Jack Burney
Jack Burney
your Beautiful Dreams hide
in a stream of black smoke
trailing the Chicagoland Express
on the outbound train riding through
the great wheat plain
We Listen
to Beautiful Thinkers who quietly
Tinker on the creaky train
(drinking grain alchyhol
at 3 a.m.)
We are Gautama
-Buddha
Meditating like Neruda
I
Kiss those hands Your prose stained hands
We breastfeed and suckle
I
On Tecate
You on Quetzalcoatl
O
The old man screaks
while
Curtis, my brother
Pulls the curtain clouds Apart to sneek a Peek
He Hears:
“Which way to San Francisca?”
The pushcart peddler bares a toothless smile
from his whole hearted soul
says
“Li Po needs a ride”
while
Up from Mexicoland Mother Earth transforms herself
Scrub Brush
Dances
Motherless mirages blanket the horizon
Cacti stand
-sentinels manned
The barrage of dust coats
My lungs
I Point up to say
“Heaven
lies in the ground you seek”
Jack Burney
On the night express Enroute to Midamerica, U.S.
-Train trail rider
Your journey ends as the crossroads
portend
The Dream
The dream was not a nightmare-sad she felt
of the ghost that lived in her mind at night
not wanting to close her eyes, she had dealt
with the pain came more pain, she knew no light
The dream was ready for afraid she knew
the one whom she loved would return tonight
regret crept filling in the void anew
afraid, rejoining she was to moonlight
Guilt came around amid the day, tears flowed
but the day burned bright and melted away
all she once had feelings for did erode
the night’s embrace she welcomed on that day
The one she loved no longer haunted her
the night stashed the fog, no dreams would occur
We Are Still Here
The hate clung to the air-contagious-breathe
tears flowed, eyes red, fists pumped, our faces hot
they yell, they spew lies, over and they teethe
in time-living backwards in thought
The light that was ensured did not appear
shouts and fists pumped through the air-in time
they stared and making us part of their fear
uncertain thoughts plagued our hearts leaving grime
The sun shone on our backs revealing us
for who we are-are like you and you-cry
we refused to get on the back seat bus
they stopped to wonder whether to deny
The sun shone on our visage to reveal
the wounds that were inflicted would soon heal
Prairie Wind
On a Kansas prairie, the winds exhaled
gales of dust that settled
land like thick fog. Ethel rode
her Phantom Rider load beyond the wind’s
almighty grip, she peddled past the locust
plagued corn that destroyed a midwest farmer.
The prairie wind stung her face. Covered in dust,
a barn the color of night hovered on
the horizon. Ethel’s legs grew weary
with each and every turn of the spokes.
The wind blew. A weathered old farmer
in blanched, patched dungarees hollered,
hello
His voice rang in her ear. The wind blew.
She stopped, raised a sweaty hand to greet
the old fella’. Devils of dust were born,
slowly, Ethel’s voice sliced the wind.
The dust coated word resonated
with the broken, tired granger,
hello
He blotted his forehead with
a checkered bandana . A small stream
of tobacco juice dribbled down his chin.
As long as the prairie wind continued
to blow, they remained content to remain
apart. When it stopped, Ethel rode away.
She Waits
On land the winds do blow—for now they breathe
The dust does sting. It leaves a coat of sand
She loved the Earth gone now—dirt tastes like beets
The dark of night makes haste, she waits for you
The frost of night indents the soul—tonight
She waits for you, in black the pale decide
As fate requires—the tears embrace the sky
Suspend that time in space, a cry for help
A sound is heard amongst the stars—behold
The bat between the clouds reveals to you
A reply arrives too late, regret and fate
Declare the end—in time she waits for you
Billie McCorkle is an author of short stories, poetry and three self published zines. Currently, she is working on her first novel.