Scales Of The Dragon

Scales Of The Dragon

by James Timberlake


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Scales Of The Dragon by James Timberlake

To date, I've written three books pertaining to the experience of walking the Camino de Santiago, a 1000-year-old European Pilgrimage with many points of departure, but which all lead to the northwestern Spanish province of Galicia... to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela under which the bones of St. James the Apostle are believed to be buried. "It's the Journey, not the destination," could not be more true. Combining journal entries, poetry and formal e-mails, these books celebrate the sights, sounds, flavors, (and the physical and mental strain), of crossing mountains, rolling landscapes, and unchanged rural villages, as well as vibrant cities of Art, Architechture and Style. Combining journal entries, poetry and formal e-mails, these books relay the experience in a first-hand way of "what it's like to labor and glide a couple thousand miles across Europe."

Scales of the Dragon collects the poems from Sons of Thunder, Autumn on the Trail to Santiago and Upon This Stoney Holy Year. And although nothing new is literally added, what emerges is a shift in Perception. To 'walk' the trail by way of poetic imagery is an entirely different modality - it is to walk through someone else's In-scape but awaken in one's own skin - and it's not for everyone... but for those with whom it resonates, here is the full spray of poems.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781463446086
Publisher: AuthorHouse
Publication date: 09/07/2011
Pages: 216
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.63(d)

Read an Excerpt

Scales of the Dragon

By James Timberlake


Copyright © 2011 James Timberlake
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4634-4609-3

Chapter One

      poems from Upon this Stoney Holy Year


    departure's eve,
      solstice light late in the sky,
        my favorite indigo
      winged in Milky Way immortal flight.

    eyes flash east, west, east, up,
      one nightmared wren implodes with song,
      feathers sifting through amber streetlight beams,
      shadow at last kissing quill.

    to feast at Casa Portugal
      before i leave this summering country,
      not returning home until bright-veined autumn leaves
      tide my den's gate.

    bright-veined leaves and Orion high
      on the other side my departure tomorrow
        into so much unknown,
      the belly ripples with anticipation

    walking home wine-stained lips,
      locks of garlicky grilled bacalhau wedge
        tasty aches between my teeth,
      and simply home for a narrowing span of hours ~

    two flies in the room.
      one i captured in a yogurt cup and
        set night free. the other bangs
      lightbulb and geranium reflected black window glass.

    wings wings wings rumbling,
      stale jet plane air will linger in the whiskers
        sprawled upon a firm foreign hotel mattress.
      toilet down the foreign hotel hall,
        i'll be eyeing that shallow bedside sink.


    banking west to align with Heathrow runway ways,
      quick dawn sun melts
        phantasmagoric shadows
       across cabin ceiling storage bins.

    stale-eyed airport morning.
      Dad would have loved the in-flight GPS monitor screen
     tracking altitude, ground speed, exterior temp.,
      time and miles left to land,
        and the cartoon icon plane's skate
          across the sea.

    eating sweet flesh cherries
      and a hard-boiled egg my Mom packed,
        goodbye card i bought for
          a dying uncle
        the new journal not
          two pages broached.


    yellowest ever
      in stillness steals
        my bite-print. waiting.

    Heathrow ventilation
        thunder maddens
    Heathrow walls.

    my body
        in 3:am daylight
          begins sour
        to firm French
          hotel bed.


    last stage to Le Puy ~
      nodded a knot in the neck
        on this rackety train napping,
        unbolted metal cabinet doors hiding
           bang open.
          wide-eyed dog fear,
    tail curlicues tiny balls beneath his master's seat.
      now, St. Étienne Châteaucreux station cables
        in crazed suspension bridge spans
          hum wind, bead rain.
       European ambulance strangely wails.


    chef joining Aznavour
       refraining 'la Bohème' in the back room ...
      salad, lentils, sausage, wine,
        five fist-sized purple allium
        from a murk water glass vase bloom,
      transubstantiate, become tomorrow's alpha
    beginning so much of sweat and miles.

        seminary courtyard chestnut
          trees, the nightlong,
          rustle streamly deep corners
            of room and soul.


      after pilgrim's mass,
        Le Puy Bishop's blessing
          by the statue of St. James.
    he, a few slow kind words
       after each spoke their place of origination,
    often lost in old Cathedral stone echoes,
        but what is breathed kind remains...
    candles flicker into stillness
        as centuries of wax-wick flame
          have here
    before the Road to Santiago's
      fears and joys and pains express soul sweat flesh.

    from much mind wandering and wondering how ...
        wind and incense spark now's lips.
      these early morning cobblestone steps,
        walking stick ticking beside me,
            dawn behind.


    about the hour when today's pilgrims
        receive the Bishop's blessing ~
    my footsteps on volcanic stone,
        whiskered wheat,
          knee-high green corn,
        backpack straps creak,
          walking stick metronome.
          behind Rugosa rose cascades
        meadows rise with cricket and birdsong
         until midday sun silence.

    red crêpe petal poppy nods,
        waymarker giggles 1,521K
            to Compostelle.

    yellow and pink
        wildflower stars,
          white cones,
        purple spears among lichened stone,
    breakfast cartoon cereal laughs back at me
        from the poem's page.


        les Monts du Devès range crest,
      a field of gold-flame-bloom broom burns wind ...
    when white butterfly bursts from purple thistle,
        i always thought it was a
          clockmaker's dream ...
    a flesh, blood, and hollow-boned cuckoo
        calls out a crazed 35 o'clock.


    another river to ridge climbed,
        sweat dries in cricket cedar breeze.
      soon these peaks too will turn
          hinter distance smokey blue
           and vanish.


    volcanic pumice to granite ~
        stone and cricket change dharma
          under horizon-bridged
          cloudfront floes.
    gargantuan hare i took for a lithe deer jacks ass away.
        acrid waft, Gauloise
        smoking fat old dude in working
    man's blues ... if you gotta toil,
        wear the Queen of Heaven's hue.
        sun-roasted horse-shit incenses its way
           back to a pile of hay.


        backbreakingly labored into Saugues' homes
          well before my time,
        tranquil under shine blue skies ~
    the soothing screech of swallow skeins whirling
        knit and purl long memories to
    rock meadow mind.


    swallows sing daylight hamlet walls,
        dogs bay night fields,
        stuff-sacked gear strewn about
            a resting room.


    dusty violet forget-me-nots in
        buttercup embrace

    blue cornflowers ring around the
        yellow blooming broom bush

    no idea the name indigo
        tangles no idea the name gold

    between crystal azur sky and
        field green,

    how nature joys in caressing
        the center of light's spectrum
    and toppling expectation
        with one white crow.

    sometimes, so
        little in
        patchwork fields
            roll with subtle
        shifting shades,
    a ring of fir fringes the meadow's bowl
        for scalloped
            clouds to
          to drift in,
        axis is
    wild pink rose.


apricot blazed
    western Auvergne sky,
        walking from hilltop bench
          to hamlet hollow,
        the horizon-wide cloud gyre ...
    titan crashes to the sea and dies.


    early morning
        hostel already empty ~
        waiting for the pharmacy to open
         to bandage raw and bleeding feet ~
      swallows spin spontaneous roller coaster courses
         around age-melted stone church walls ~
         yellow wildflower tuft eking it out
           in the saint-strolled eaves...
      geraniums glow with within light the overcast allows.


    ten minutes rain,
        ten minutes repose in
          cedar whisper,
    birdsong rises with spectral vapour to the blue,
        smelling horse-shit brings me back
          a thousand years to now.


        white limestone track winds
    esses through rolling plateaux,
        stunningly one auburn bovine tucked in
          pine and yellow broom relief
            grinds her cud.
    one twilight blue cornflower among
        infinite wicks of straight green wheat,
           the quivering-in-stillness
        red-white striped fencepost balise beacons on.


Excerpted from Scales of the Dragon by James Timberlake Copyright © 2011 by James Timberlake. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents


poems from Upon this Stoney Holy Year....................1
poems from Sons of Thunder....................108
poems from Autumn on the Trail to Santiago....................145

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Scales of the Dragon 5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 4 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
He looked at ash and shifted into a semi tall 16 year old girl with black hair she wore a black tank top black short and vans
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Ash, your eyes are red... *Tierra said cautioisly* Are you sure? *she felt his forhead* Your ice cold. Whats wrong? ~Tierra Byron looked at Ash, he screeched and could see an evil aura around him and tried to tell Tierra. Fawkes tried to too. He even tried to make phoenix tears. They could heal anything. Glaciersong whimpered and poked Ashes leg.
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