Naples , FL
Kicking Bear Productions
Painting - Acrylic On Canvas
It was about the Gunslingers Girl...
Her vibrant red lipstick pointed at him like a smoking gun in a stick up. Kissing tales fell into the drifting currents beyond all his time and wonder. Smoke rings circled and rose to the rafters in the rooftops of the sky as he dropped to the wagon trail like a jewel thief at midnight. No he was not dead and she did not kill him. Yet, her silence washed out with the creeping tide on that fate filled day. She had seen him drift in from the burning desert, staggering in the dust at the edge of town like a dark cloud of violence. He was a tall man of substance, dressed in black and wearing a pair of holsters filled with silver guns. He was injured and she would help him. There was nothing left in her romance she couldnt hide. Her heart fluttered like a bee hive inside. He was the traveler wounded on the trail by wolves on the hunt some days ago. Ringo had lost his horse deep in the mountain woods near rough rivers covered by trees. Even the strongest of limbs bowed down to the red land by falling snow from the thirsty sea's. It was an old story of Valentine lingering inside the swollen heart of the ancient relic known as love.
In the deep south west of the pecos there was a saloon known as the whiskey river. A short piano filled the corner where a gunslingers girl stood by a window. He awoke from the place of healing dreams to see her watching over him in silhouette.
They were both spared of the wilderness on that late afternoon while rolling the dice for the spice in life. Perhaps it was by the lucky ace in a deck full of dueces. Either way, they lived on. She had been drifting wild upon the shell covered shore by the great ocean floor, A special breed from the east, with an ability to read. She spoke quietly in the tongues of secrets made of mysteries; He came from a deadly path filled by blood and wrath. A mixed blood farm boy who strayed from home into war and pain.
Holding to the sweet visions, they reached out once more. Shimmering particles of light bounced with every swirling wave. A new song was coming. She tightened up her guitar strings and he stroked the flute of sage which just arrived in a new cedar cloak. It was their final showdown.
Jazmin wanted babies but, he was gunslinger with a blood lust filled with rabies. It wasn't a match, except when they lit up the midnight skies in a lovers fire where the Eagle flies. It was a western tale of a young man in passion and the eastern song life of a young girls desire. They just couldnt fly any higher. So they landed in a crash; both of them hurt, wrecked and stranded.
He rode west while she stayed in their home an did her very best.
Years flew past but love would always last.
Time the enemy. Moments forgotten. The scent almost lost.
Then one day once upon a time...a quarrel unfinished between them walked into the saloon listening to his showgirl ryhme...
A Tall man wearing black with silver pistols had made it back.
She wore a single blossom flowering in the tangels of her hair. The pedals wore red, scented sweet and spoke of danger in a natural dare. Still, she would always care. The sacred wind began whispering through the cracks in a stained blue window and the old men started chanting. The young man suddenly stood erect from his card table moving inches from his old wooden chair...
The sound of the room was hungered; even stronger for the taste to win was he who began watching with sight of red eye whiskey suddenly moved to hope.
Her eyes sparkeled in tune with an Angels harp and shined with a drop of turquoise pooled in blue. She swayed in a gown like a yellow butterfly. Her lips, rubies painted by the holy angels very own fingertips. Draped around her dark brown hips, smiled a golden talisman diamond pinned in perfection to the all knowing veil inspiring. The sweet morning sunshine curled with her innocence romancing her fragrant locks of hair. She tied her every dream inside a lost love in sad reflections to fade ageless enlaid wounded and bare.
He too was somewhere there. Tanned and beaten full of brawn. Riding In on thundering heartbeats; still standing by the scent of gunsmoke, he failed inside the rage of storms; their argument still shouting in the dance of lightening, begging her back and for her love once more.
He tied his wilderness ponies and lined them up painted by the forest floor. Yet, his dark stallion was still prancing in pioneer; saddled upon the flirting wings of dragonflies; in a tongue of fire and gore. His hardwood pistol laced hard and lean with a gunhand so fast it was never seen. So she walked right back out the door. The story is an old one kissing tales of war and peace. So he comes to the place by the sea again now and then, to visit her in the face of palm shadows; in a voice suddenly reluctant, yet, free from his sin.
She wears the crown, still alone in beauty and bathes in flowering fingers touched tender to the sounds of waterfalls. Always she plays him in the smallest of smiles without reget. For, her dark brown hips are made for a talisman diamond pinned to the all knowing veil inspiring; He shines his badge In silent sight of her blossoming hair flower dripping wet. No longer an gunslinger, He too grins without regret.
Protecting Wild Things,
Kicking Bear Barry
The Eccentric poet
April 3rd, 2011
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