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Tod A. Braunwart


Vancouver, WA, US

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Do You Hear That?


Tod A. Braunwart

There is no conscience
among those fools who
run in packs today.

They have no vision of the future,
no want of the present,
no rememberance of the past.

Their lives are but tirades,
disconnected moments of
conning and being conned.

Each day takes them
one step deeper into
the abyss, into hell.

They are the drug runners,
the "Go Fast Kings"
the nightmares in the alley ways.

Do you hear that pounding?
It's them, the pulse
of an ailing city.

The pounding will grow louder,
the city will succumb,
and the pulse will beat no more.

Jug Lake


Tod A. Braunwart

A moon-lit moment
Under a canopy of silence
The horizon spiked by
Living stalagmites
Faint stars floating
In a sea of grey-black
The howl of an unknown denizen

And I watch, my mind a blank
canvas awaiting nature's brush.

Hell Cast Rain


Tod A. Braunwart

Day breaks, mind stirs,
loves such a wanton thing.
Heart beats, blood flows,
wisdom holds the reins.

Head turns, eyes lock,
a face sweetly peeks the brain.
Heart beats, blood warms,
wisdon flickers unrestrained.

Hands reach, tims stalls,
a touch turns tremors into flames.
Heart beats, blood surges
wisdom shuffles from the scene.

Love grows, souls mate,
excitement rules unrestrained.
Heart pounds, blood boils,
wisdom has lost all claims.

One turnes, says it but a lie,
other's bliss returns as pain.
Heart stops, blood chills,
Here falls the hell cast rain.

The Dying and the Dead


Tod A. Braunwart

My heart exposed by mortal gash
beats in the gaping wound for all to see.
I sense the flickering of life
as blood surges from my breast.
The will to survive has faded
fog begins to fill my bloodless head.

At sight's edge barely can be seen,
bowing down a woman on her knees.
Upon her neck rides a boot, pressing deep
into her flesh - oh to such a depth.
A tear falls, a drop of endless anguish
down her cheek and burns a river bed.

One last clear quandry springs into my head:
Which is the dying and which is already dead?

The Sands Of Time


Tod A. Braunwart

Cracked hands drag his parched body forward.
Slow and arduously he struggles for every inch.
His mouth has assimilated the sand,
dry harsh and choking. Always choking.
His eyes are a fuzzy blur
from a thick almost plastic coating.
His last legs are gone, he's ready to succumb, to die.
His arms stretch in one final effort
reaching for the sand, but find water.
Cool, flowing, life giving water.
He drinks his fill collapsing on the bank
in a daze staring at the water rolling past -
- then sighs - knowing he cant't take it with him, and he will die.
Sleep takes him, delivers a reprieve of dreams and
he awakens feeling remade, almost human,
for a moment that is, until he sees the river has run dry.

Time is like that. Just a sip renews life.
But when the river runs dry,
you thirst for the water that has passed you by.



Tod A. Braunwart

I feared no ghost, nor wavered at the poltergeist
As I danced on the graves of saint's
Spat on the gates of hell
And rode the wave of youth's exuberance,
Miraculously unscathed, to this future
Where reason's eye turns back in awe -
- Wondering how such a treacherous distance
Could be traversed without meeting death face-to-face.

Surf's Lullaby


Tod A. Braunwart

Take me to a place
where waves break upon the shore.
Where the crashing surf
will cleanse what weighs upon my soul.
Let me sit, surrounded by the mist,
drift like those droplets on the wind.
Wafting high into the ocean's sky,
carried on the lullaby of din.