landscape photography of mountains covered in snow

Snowy Mountain Peaks Above the Clouds

The Peace above the fray, splendorous Peace, moldering white cat, gray.

Its sumption. Fine in its verdict. Decisive snowy, and wizened slurry without such fog of war. Giving way to Peace; a distinct and silent affair.

The knife’s edge, elusive Samurai sword. Honor of death before deception. Setting sun of Empire.

…so few return from battle once they go there in great numbers diminished. Then the world changes to never be the same. Memories die like mist in the harsh sun.

Decisive, Peace -conquering all in its splendor. Ninja warrior living in the moment, the eternal now. Battle-ready, battle hard.

Waiting silent cat, upon her branch of a fence, her lair a truthful den. Silent and ready.

Death is silent says the cat.

Unknown and unseen, drape me in your sumptuous snow, your conifer evergreen, within the bosom of a mountain ridge, ragged, jaded of the world outside of its existence. Biding time, wise beyond eons: the sword of Peace cuts not but twice, once for War, then again for Peace.

Jagged ridges in their finality, a sawtooth, by-and-by. I dream of the future, that one-way journey;

…put myself there, the snowy destiny of staggering height.

James Legare – 7-08-2022

FICTIONAL POETRY BY JAMES LEGARE

white clouds

Clouds in their magnificent splendor, they shroud the Earth with that certain cloak. Be their various moods of calm or stuporous mystic glory of slow and ponderous enigma, or sheets of steel that alert the birds of inclement uncertainty, be they willful in their opacity, be they the color salmon varying with magenta, unashamed of their jealousy of the sun’s dying glory, the day spent, observed from a plane or a pier or the doings of mere earthlings like me. They are more than the mere pearls of the atmosphere, fallen from the queens of legends, but are the cloak-and-dagger story of the nature of eons, and not just the day’s epoch recorded in mystic frozen or liquid ether.

It is all to be erased; the doings on Earth, the affairs of men, into ephemeral destiny, mere marks in the sands of time.

– James Legare 7-5-2022

Like a counterfeit coin they are passed around, they haunt us still. Then again.

Lustrous fake. Baleful moon. Your cats eye me. Discovered yet again. Found deeds compound.

When passed from palm to palm, quicksilver from stranger ’till stranger. Add another.

Test the mettle, never. Essence in repast, discounted, skimmed, then cheapened. Finally counterfeit. A feint of likeness.

The task of the light, spark of day, a darkened street corner for meeting and passing.

Never shall I look you in the eye.

The inevitable is never shown, but felt like mettle along the palm, smooth as spider’s web, city corner by moon.

Transact this, nature and commerce. Take this coin I profer. I beseech yet more belief a little stretch finely as a spider with her web.

Sheenful ice on barely frozen pond, eyelet with crusty snow in winter. Malingering. Yet the light of moon as vacuous and tempting as night. Ponderous silence, witchcraft and grave.

I’m seen only shadows. Rather not that shock of light. Draught of silver by sun, roundness of silver coin lit by our nearby star of a single Truth. That single brilliance shall never be.

It is stated what evil shall be done: always beforehand, then deed committed. Silent witness, oh silent moon.

Parting clouds that shield that satellite like an all seeing eye above a dark city scape, crateral, languorous.

On its unceasing journey, round, silvery, sees my misdeeds once and again.

The one agent of truth remains. The vacuum its unceasing journey, not even the wind to announce the silent path of Truth.

The omniscient heavens have mercy not. Not for me, nor thee. Not in passing nor in night.

– the culmination of past misdeeds- by James Legare 4-26-2022

“I’ve found all glitter. No GOLD!” * SEE DETAILS BELOW * Always, read the small print!

And…Beware the Ides of March as Comets blaze for Kings, Prince and Princes. However, the heavens remain quiet for the tears of a beggar. Tears fall. Stars remain. Stay then clear.

Dust of 1849, secure in safe hills, as yet unspent. Unrealized gains. Merely, under the golden hills, remains. The Republic of California, dead with the past, from the desolation of fire. The Wild. The Pacific Peace of the Ocean at The Gate. Angel Island at Bay. The ongoing collusion for peace in the heavens, where you should find yourself. Dustup in a saloon. It dreams it’s nighttime in the City: my dragoon, my dragon of Asian dissent. Silently magnificent you are on this cloudless night far from the Wall of epochs.

Not a piece, but, the peace is GOLD. Ride the dragon and drug with this dust; the dust of heavens, the Pacific at The Gate, walled off on three sides by water, the dream’s well protected. And heaven’s in my head. The silent neon dreams: a China Town, a pyramid upon its shoulders. Transamerica dreams bathed in City Lights. Desolate silence. Peace conquers. And then you quietly leave before steely dawn.

– A Poem by James Legare 3-15-22

A Beautiful Day in Sugarland, TX 2022 – by James Legare

Borrachos de Sueño: Una Poema

Un joven elegante, con dos paquetes de cigarrillos. Los juramentos, imaginaria y vigilancia a la encargada. La pista de desfile, los lápices en las manos – ángulos rectos, solamente gestos rigidos. Un interminable caos. Los pulmones llenos de humo…El pecho cesa con ojos cerrados.

A ocupar sus puestos después el peso de la muerte.

Por James Legare 12-30-2021 – Borrachos de Sueño: Una Poema

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