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Welcome to Week 3 Release of Larry Bourland Poetry from Durango, Colorado!

Updated: Jan 22

Welcome to our week 3 poetry preview for the website. Some of the poetry has been fished from the past and a couple are new inspirations from my mysterious muse. Please utilize this website to post your own poetry or short stories in the Forum. This is your opportunity to share with our art community and friends and fellow poetry enthusiasts.

Anthony has introduced an Art Library of his incredible artistic renderings that have accompanied my poetry, which have made my work come to life. Click on the "Art" tab to view his renderings. I also invite you to follow along with the spoken word feature tab accompanying the poem. The spoken word feature is also an advantage for the visually impaired to enjoy our website.

As a reminder if you are enjoying our website adventure please share our posts across your social media feeds. The response from our readers continues to be overwhelming and we are committed to improving with each new weekly update. Thank you for your continued support. It has been overwhelming to see so many friends from the past reconnecting!

Included in the release of this blogs content is the following:


Hell On Wheels

Decades recalled

as if only moments passed.


The distant future

wasn’t in our expectations

of tomorrow.


We made no plans,

we were busy

all consuming

in the here and now

of today.


With no expectation

of our extinction

we left ourselves vulnerable

without an escape route.


Racing headlong in oblivion

we rode our codependence

with abandoned.

In grand Hollywood

romance style

our relationship 

would not simply 


As explosive as we lived

so we died.








speeding at suicide speed,


gathered at

appointed time

and place,

the locomotives 

of our lives

raced toward each other.


The crowd was not disappointed.



The sun dragged itself

like a road grader

across the barren August sky,

scaring and searing the earth below.


Dog days would be a relief

to what the heavens were offering;

a prophetic hellish scene of Dante’s reality.


Those few,

those lucky few who could still travel

sought temporary relief in Death Valley.

Unbearable climes below sea level

were temperate in these intemperate times

of misery and global confusion.


Mankind was paying the price for its choices

resulting in no option

other than human remains

presenting as burn spots on the charred soil.


Relief was nye impossible as the devil laughed a duet

to the audible screaming of unholy heat 

escaping the strangled gasps of the quickly dying

who soon, agonizingly not soon enough, 

would be relieved of their pain, only 

to leave the planet continuing to suffer unfathomable agony.





all living, every inanimate blending


a massive swirling conglomerate of detritus

coating the surface of this, our home


until the blue hue of Mother Earth

conceded defeat 

ultimately regressing to the  

lifeless third stone from the sun

covered in the goo of mankind’s consciousness.


We had a choice.

We chose poorly.

Happy Earth Day.




Where do the insane go when they die?

Is there a special heaven or hell

awaiting the mentally not well?


White lie insane to criminally insane

are the guidelines of madness

capable of inflicting exhaustive pain

and hellacious sadness.


But where do they go in the afterlife?


The devil doesn’t have time to deal with idiosyncratic

mental maladies, it would take up too much

of his valuable time with such

satanic formalities.


Is there a notice posted at the pearly gates in heaven 

directing the insane,

the afflicted,

the homeless

the colored,

the wandering poet,

the undiagnosed

to the Pearly Prejudices Entrance around back?

(…follow the yellow line to the blue line…)


Punishment Guidelines & Definitions:

White Lies?

A sin, (regardless of the color of the lie)



Criminally Insane?



Morally Insane?

ENTRANCE DENIED! see addendum: 

                                  Addendum: Probation & Restitution;

                                  (consideration possible…TBD)



What is the place where the insane will dwell?


Certainly not, as the strong would prey upon the weak.

And we couldn’t have that in Heaven

as it is on earth!

But where DO they go?


Old Joe, a White Lie Story Teller

(Heaven help his soul).

Once, repeatedly he explained:

“back in the olden days 

the less mentally fortunates

were stripped naked outta their clothes and sins. 

We ain’t saw ‘em since.”


History dictates each are escorted

to Kharon, a Louisiana Barge out of New Orleans

(the official Insanity Way Station).

Tugs always at the ready!


Chairs of questionable comfort we’re made available

for the long slow downstream boat ride.


Pulling away from the pier

the unfortunates, ever puzzled

yet delighted

in the insanity of it all,

never question the large crowd

come to see them off.


From behind Trinity Church Mother Superior

turns a cheek in shame.


Drifting further downstream

every church steeple of Jackson Square genuflects

at the uncertainty the unfortunates face.


As the passengers drift along

Representatives of the Holy Roman Empire

line their balcony giving dismissive blessings

while toasting from bottomless cups filled with Christ’s blood,

feasting on the Eucharist as lunch time bells peal the sins 

of man without a blink or care.


The bishop, feasting in private, avoiding acknowledgment of the

insane spectacle drifting below his palace, as so directed in the Bishop Handbook.


Molesting altar-boys was not covered

in last year's handbook so he failed to not consider it a sin.

Did hunger for sinfully young flesh cause him to be 

White Lie Insane?

A little insane?

A lot insane?

Criminally Insane?

Morally Insane?

Or not insane enough not to be denied entrance

to his blessed beyond?

He knew how and when to be forgiven,

but what of the insanity

he inflicted?


The unfortunates, oblivious in mind and deed,

ride their river barge downstream to the confluence of the Styx

to the unknown afterlife

out of sight,

out of mind,





Do not take me yet death.

I do not fear you,

I fear but only

what I will miss

and still selfishly desire.


The road

which brought me here

is filled with

love and joy,

triumph and loss,

accomplishment and too often sloth.

Upon this road

I stand

no longer envisioning

future trials and decisions.


Here the road ends,

upon it

I am stranded.

Yesterday is complete

tomorrow no longer offers

insight of expectation.

So, I stand waiting.


(Sloth raising its prickly head)

I cannot find my way

facing a tomorrow I cannot foretell.

No direction

nor purpose

beckons my call.


Life has come to a halt

even as the future 

of my children’s children

face the adventure of life ahead

like the meadow

or forest of trees

yet to be explored.


Death do not take me yet

even though my life

is overfilled

and its offerings

taken advantage of.


When young

I could foresee

my way

my trail,

my destiny.

Now, I stand motionless

wanting not this path

to end.


Death do not take me yet

for I am too selfish for you.

I am incapable of

and unable to lay down

just to let you take me

without a fight.

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