Sunday, September 29, 2013


What pain to bear, yon hearts that share
a love entwined as those to bear
both rose and thorn; how sweet's that torn
and ravaged by shunned lover's scorn!

                           --Monty Wheeler


She laughed upon the mound of dirt,
and laughter's tears poured out her hurt.
 Lo, came the night she walked away,
yet left her soul where ghosts will play.
 She carried on though not by choice,
though day on day she heard his voice
and night upon each lonely night
she begged return of God's daylight.

                          --Monty Wheeler


Set soul to sail on ageless wind,
floating light as dead brown leaf
left to God where flights might end.

And where I'd land I'll show no grief
returned to dust beneath the snow
for spring shall bring it's warm relief.

 Then once again on life's green tree
I'l thrive as God renews what's me.

                      --Monty Wheeler

Friday, September 20, 2013


broken dreams like torn paper dolls strewn across the floor,
and in despair the child cries there begging for some more;
such is man--his shattered world--his cries, one can't ignore

                                            --Monty Wheeler


and from a distant mountain rolls,
"Walk this way, ye wearied souls,
"for nigh's the time the last bell tolls.

and to the one who'd chanced to hear,
who'd dared to turn a listening ear,
to him, the beast spoke loud and clear.

"And, bid, ye wanderer, cast thy net
"in barren sea of thickest jet
"then come to me to pay thy debt!

 "For secrets that ye've ne'er been told
"are mine to have, and still I hold
"thy fate in eyes that glitter gold!

"So walk, ye wayward one, to me;
"fancy pain as pleasantry,
"as price of man's dark legacy."

and turn, he did, as if sure-lost
toward that fate of debt and cost;
and might he wished Fates' paths ne'er crossed?

then toward that distant mountain's drone,
as if by spell and broken bone,
forever, he would stumble on.

                                   --Monty Wheeler

Tuesday, September 17, 2013


He owned the road, or so he thought
until the day his fate well-bought
the unexpected too-sharp curve
and old rear tire with want to swerve.
With none to hear--he rode alone--
the scream, the crash, the breaking bone,
he lay in blood but not for long
before the angels sang his song.

                      --Monty Wheeler

Monday, September 16, 2013


 And, verily, I say to thee, My Child,
Give soul to rest upon thy wearied knee;
Tis when the clouds loom dark and ocean’s wild
You’re tossed about on Life’s high roiling sea.
If callused of thy heart, ye’d most need Me,
It’s ne’er that should ye walk with want to pray,
For I am timeless and the cost of prayer is free,
And I am here in dark of night or day.
But come to me so humbled in the way
Small children seek the Father’s lap, warm smile,
And reassurance all will be okay;
Seek comfort in thy Father’s love awhile.
Thus share your worst, but Child, your God’s desire
Be both the good and bad, the calm or ire.

                                         --Monty Wheeler

Sunday, September 15, 2013


She eased her scoot up on his side;
he glanced and gasped, "Man, what a ride!"
She smiled and twisted her right hand;
those pipes would sing like some rock band.
Not one word from him she heard
before the green light set that bird
into the wind again to sail,
and naught he saw but red light tail.

He gave to smile and watched her fade
into the night--the angel's shade.

                          --Monty Wheeler


He tapped the brake and dropped a gear,
hit that curve sans caution's fear.
Thunder rolled on that asphalt
from two chrome pipes in full assault.
With hard left lean, he hugged that line,
that yellow barrier of man's design.
 Half way in, he hit the gas
and felt the skid as if on glass.

                       --Monty Wheeler


She bade him stay; he walked away
 and fired his Harley's ire.
 She heard his rage in those chrome pipes
 and in the burning tire.

He hit the street with throttle held;
 he'd show her anger's skill;
 and never did he turn to see
 the cage with bulk to kill.

She buried him one rain drenched day
 upon a green hillside
 and on his cross, an albatross
 hung for his ghost's last ride.

The day passed slow; while moon was low
 the sky began to clear,
 while still she knelt at that dirt mound
 and spent her final tear.

Across the sky, a thousand Harleys--
 all in black and chrome--
 rumbled as the long-dead riders
 called a brother home

The ground would shake and open up;
 one more would ride the skies,
 and ride to chase the demon spawn
 of rage with glow'd red eyes.
                        --Monty Wheeler


Just for today, My God, I pray;
Tomorrow's but a dream to me,
And one that I might never see;
Yesterday’s a fading memory.

My will be Thine; thy will be known;
Make Thy rightous path my own,
Just for today, My God, I pray
Please Guide in what I’d do and say

And humble me; let pride be gone,
as night relents to Thy new dawn.
I come to You through your one son,
Through Jesus Christ my prayer is done

And still I kneel in solitude
And listen with a gratitude
For all Your blessings You’ve bestowed;
How large the debt that You are owed!

Just for today, My God, I pray,
Grant that I should walk your way.

              --Monty Wheeler

Sunday, September 1, 2013


Make merry night, ye gentlemen,
for demons spawn in night's soft den,
and wise the foolish man who's lies
keep secrets of his own demise.
for walks the imp upon this land
to quench blood thirst by its own hand.

                    --Monty Wheeler

The Gift Horse

The Gift-Horse (a work in prose poetry)
By Monty Wheeler

           Melinda stood outside the barn, just where her daddy said, and waited with just one part hope and three parts of pure dread.  She hated surprises for too many times her hopes were shattered and scattered like broken roles of shiny, thin dimes.  The worst was when Daddy took Mama to that germ free place; she didn’t come back to dry the tears from one scared little face; they said she was dead and gone to God’s grace.   But Melinda knew better, and so many nights Mama held her with care. 

The big barn door opened, and Daddy walked out.  She peeked through the fingers of hand-covered eyes; she couldn’t imagine what was her surprise.  Daddy led out a huge dappled gray, and oh, how she loved that horse right away.  Even his gait had some special sway.  The gleam in his eye gave Melinda to cry; but happy tears she spilled.  Her uncle asked her, “How many hands?”  All she could muster was clapping with joy; her hands were for petting, not measuring that boy.

She’d never been of lace or yarn, no pearl one, knit two, she’d urge to learn.  She loved the farm and barnyard scents at dawn.  But how they laughed at her in school; they always said, “Your daddy dresses you funny!” when she wore her little girl Roper boots and Wrangler jeans and snaps on shirts, and oh, how those snaps always shined so nice, like little bitty chips of colored ice in full sunlight.  Some days she cried and others denied her wounded, hurting heart. 

            Out came the tack; Melinda stepped back and screamed, “No!  Don’t want that stuff, Daddy; it hurts my new horse!”

            “Without the saddle, I can’t let you ride,” her daddy said in voice just as soft as goose down bed.  “And without the bridle, there’s no way you can guide.”

            “I don’t care, Daddy,” Melinda pouted.  “Don’t want that shiny thing hitting his teeth, and don’t want those straps to go tight underneath!”

            “But, Melinda, you can’t ride—“

            “Just watch me, Daddy,” Melinda cried.  She led the large steed to the old well house, climbed the rock wall, and with handful of mane, she went for it all.

            The big, gentle breed of remarkable steed—as if he knew the little girl’s need—walked to the fence but stopped to return to the bucket, as Daddy rattled the corn.  But Melinda had none of that corn-spoiled fun.  A cowgirl’s instinct tugged at his mane; he turned down the fencerow as if it were plain the big, ol’ horse the little girl wanted much the same thing.

            “Melinda!” her daddy called and started their way.  She set him to trot; it bounced her a lot, but with both hands deep in his natural mane, she stayed on his back, ne’er noticed the pain of bouncing on his hard knobbed spine.  At canter he smoothed the rough-on-her ride, and more she urged by rubbing his side.  His gallop was smooth as riding on air; Melinda clung tight to his neck and cackled, for freedom was hers, a cowgirl unshackled.

            She failed to see with her wide-eyed stare the far north fence across the “out there.”  But oh, how her horse could set a girl free; ne’er could she run as fast as he.  And bigger he grew in her mind’s eye until he loomed large as big ol’ blue sky.  And nearer the fence, but still they’d not slow, and nearer the fence at full gallop they’d go.   “Now Dasher!  Now Dancer!  Now Prancer and Vixen!”  She cried reindeers’ names, and none seemed to fit; her horse was a dasher, but that name was not it. 

            She felt her steed tense, and then came the sense of dangerous barbs in that five-stranded fence.  He drew his legs under and gathered his force, t’was naught she could do but hold fast to her course.   Behind Melinda, she heard Daddy scream, “Hold on to him, Baby!”  His voice seemed extreme, for ne’er had she felt so lighter than air, as the horse cleared the fence with inches to spare. 

             As Pegasus rose, he caught an updraft, and far below, she saw Daddy’s arms waving so fast like he tried to fly.  Melinda waved “bye” and called “I love you!   I’m going to see Mama!  I’ll kiss her for you and tell her you love her and miss her lots too!”

Pegasus flew into the bright morning sun.  A horse and a cowgirl—two to share one dream of forever, and friendship begun.
The End


She braves this world with dress unfurled
and billow’d in the wind.
As ghost or angel, one or both,
she walks the breeze, my friend.

And as the wind through oak trees cries,
friend, you’ll hear her sing.
And listen with your lonely heart;
you’ll hear her fluttering wing.

Upon the pure white of the cloud,
she sails the sea-blue sky.
Of nature’s call she hears it well,
laments its mournful cry.

Soon comes the time, my friend, you see,
her ghost shall cry no more,
for God shall end this man-made Hell
with the final war.

                     --Monty Wheeler


*The first in ballad and sequal in villanelle, my story of frustrations*

He held the book—the one he’d writ—
So high above the pyre;
A life of sacrifice to art
Would die in hungered fire.

No more to write; the poet quit;
No more of life he’d lose;
No more he’d put a pen to page,
No hours with some muse.

He fired the wooden kitchen match
With thumbnail and a flick.
“Ye’d burn!” he cursed his published work,
And ne’er he felt heartsick.

The match’s life devoured it—
The page that bore his name;
With callused look, he dropped the book
Into that red-orange flame.

He watched it burn with hopes to learn
Of life that passed him by,
While by the desk lamp’s meager light,
He’d penned his every lie.

The fire burned long, fueled by his book,
But came the time, it died
The blackened symbol of his work
Lay in the ash of pride.


The paper lay with pen in silent plea;
I should have burned the notebook and that pen;
As if the pen had eyes, it stared at me.

I’d vowed to ne’er repeat my history;
I’d killed by fire and burned what might have been.
Still.  Paper lay with pen in silent plea.

Each time I dared to sit, the pen could see.
“And burn, ye lover’s stare into my skin!”
As if that pen had eyes it stared at me.

And if I dared return that stare, I’d flee
Into myself, away from some past sin.
The paper lay with pen in silent plea.

Long nights without repose, and what could free
A prisoner of verse and writing?  Then,
As if the pen had eyes it stared at me.

And late one night dawned the epiphany;
My soul should burn!  It’s damned to write again;
The paper lay with pen in silent plea;
As if the pen had eyes it stared at me.

                            --Monty Wheeler


*Written from a challenge to include 10 days worth of prompts in a single work and for well or ill, I done 30 bold words in single poetic work*

Thirteen days and thirteen ways
To die, my friend, you’ll find
Dark verse of note and word well-wrote
And joys of every kind.

Take rest, ye merry poet folk
Before ye’d toss the dice.
Search quiet place and ties that bind
The call and sacrifice.

Keep by thine side the poet’s tools,
Lead or that machine
That clicks and rolls the tiny ball,
Leaves ink with luster’s sheen.

And from thy dream and deep repose
Thy pen may drop a line
From that long year that bitter tear
Was thy only prize.

Then blow thy horn and celebrate!
Write!  For comes the day
Thy paper floats like leaf from wood
And burns to ashen gray.

I beg ye merry architects,
Press on and then return
With rose and reason to remember
Each love of which ye’d yearn.

                        --Monty Wheeler