Organic Manicure

Earthbound melody.

Sifting thru the rust and the budding weeds.

This is the place to be when wonder begins to seed.

Rummaging, romping, romantics of the forest.

Decadent in their delivery.

Seeking clustered acorns

and

spurs of last year’s wood.

Never any thought to…rest assured.

Organic manner of giving the land a manicure.

Letting the Water Hold Me Back

 

baby driver 3

Wall to wall.

Rushing waters so fast they imply a  stall.

Winter’s root seems to have loosened her pace.

There is abrasion to her typically, smooth surface.

 

Everyday, I pass by a downy path.

I can only assume it leads to a dark tundra of creations unknown.

In refrain,

the wild-birds echo a refrain to their song…

I am in their home.

Puffs of once frozen,

white wigs.

Have turned into slushy, sodden, remains of the days.

 

The earth has bared all the select, segments, she will.

I turn a footprint towards the path of no end.

Smiling to myself,

this courage is just pretend.vacant paths deep thinkers 1

 

How To Store Poetic Thoughts

In an

imageedit_4_2307992603

 abandoned garage over on River road.

In a left alone box…I keep the sacred thoughts.

In an upholstered chair from 1972, all velour and static, covered in snow.

That is where make-believe takes a seat.

It is where poetry goes.imageedit_3_3337571397

Around about, midday, most days, when the sun quenches the sky.

I take time out to visit a graveyard Sage made of stone and bone.

To amend the playful wrongs…make them…right.

Everyday…a fortunate spirit on an infinite flight.

imageedit_7_8026432033

Flea Market Snowshoe

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Flea Market snowshoes had been my last hope.  And, I knew well enough, falling up would be easier to achieve than down.

Both being a natural achievement that comes with little sound.

Still!  There had been an organic urge.

The kind set within a pit.  Lit up.  Flamed and encouraged.

All of the elements wound itself…in a curiosity, I would not purge.

I began to walk upon frozen picnic tables, brutish mountain waters.

And, varying unearthly objects of a similar kind.

Nothing more than…raw, risky behavior by design.

 

Sullied by Contentment

imageedit_48_2991173975

Servitude is not the calling.

To ask…

would be to no avail.

The pernicious pig,

the muddied mare,

the calamitous cow.

Free of strings.

And, monetary weights.

Out to pasture by virtue of enlightenment.

Green, gold…

Only sullied by contentment.

 

Edgy

Plummeting to a gravel road.

Cascading city on wheels.

Eighteen wheeled miscreants.

Playing heavy metal solos to the articulation of my heart.

An infinitely booming question begs…

ON what is this sense of impending doom…fed?

Arguments with tension’s gods?

Or, shall I remain ‘fetal with anxieties odds?’

 

Punch drunk breaks of acceptance and it’s dawn…

Amass along my daily way.

Leaving me fetal at vanities reflection.

A righteous temptress would slay such a transgression.

Yet, I am but one woman.

Grasping at restless overgrown weeds with my shaky hands.

Adult!

However, infantile. I am.

A victim to panic’s potion.

Often found at wit’s end.

Frequently unaware of which commotion that will set the wheels of fear…

into motion.

 

 

 

Born on an Overcast Day

Freedom…Just another word for nothing left to lose.

-J.Joplin

born on a cloudy day 5.jpg

 

As the season’s merge…

I cannot help but think of how it is with us.

The inherited panic and fear.

The constant need to disappear.

Just when a trail has been laid…

Just as time has been weighed…

Our over shadowed life becomes displayed.

And, with that knowledge,

we continue to bear the fruit.

An oath to a world of soiled roots.

It is an overcast day.

Guess, sometimes it has to be that way.

Civilized words for a shut book.

Theology has yet to devise a means in which to get you…

off the hook.

No matter how much I scour my mind…

with the salts of the earth…

The winds of change have not stopped.

They take comfort in the calm before the storm.

Yet, they are never completely gone.

And, so the story goes,

some hostages are held by fear and dread.

Others by a custom-made bed. 

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The Pains of Neutral

There are eccentricities about time that many… will never get.

Similar to chasing the family pet.

imageedit_8_2028553240There is a mortal need to have it all around.

Thou, it is injured and too tightly wound.

 

It may surface that there are brisk critics regaled  for being too passionately black.

And, those willing to make the ‘devil’s pact.’

 

As followed, before, the ache arrived, minutes filled the air.

As original as, the snowflakes in which we place our grateful cares.

Mind over the matters of time.

The pain of neutral.

No joy from fast forward or rewind.

 

For myself, revelations, on a dusky December day,

That, I too, conceded,

from the comfort of living in the in between.

 

There had been a frozen dust to the air.

It covered my tracks…

Or, considerate me…

I found myself not lost…for I never looked back.imageedit_6_4922132711

Shadow’s Harm

Careless Shadows

Mother Nature has gone from global warming to a hot flash
Mother Nature has gone from global warming to a hot flash

Did you say…that

you didn’t know

Soon after the overdrawn winter…

Before the summer’s baneful glow.

Are we not the same

Did the news report a day without…

unneeded rain.

Have the skies gone aglow

Neon yellows and cosmic greens

Our shadow’s harm,

watch it go, watch it go, watch it go.

Whether or not in fanaticism

Possibly in a good-bye wave of discontent

Mother is on a ravenous tangent.

These hints

These clues to lunacy and

ignorant bliss…

Knee-jerk disasters blatantly missed.

Between the stars and the middle class

Present is past, yesterday is tomorrow

No matter, the gift is fading fast.

‘Not quite right’ heard someone say

Half a continent wasted away.

Tepid places burdened in snow

New species of unknown origin

Dabbling in the science of things we don’t know.

Silent Misdeeds

Silent Misdeeds

Silent Misdeeds

Silent MisdeedsSilent MIsdeeds

Which form of abuse is to your liking?

Why?

You say….

The choice never had been yours

to make anyway…

Though it had always been your voice at stake

Just another orgasm faked…

Choices, options, delusions of narcissistic grandeur…

Why not a familiar bent take on beat her down pleasure?

They all say twice more than what they hear

Guardians of hand-me-down fear.

Everyday serving up a family owned tactile recipes

Everyday reminders turned mystery thrillers.

Everyday the salts that eat the pillars.

Shaker Road

shaker road 4

This old house has seen it all before.  The rummaging of angst…The backdoor horrors…

Three crows circling the unkempt gardens, pecking orders for the leftovers.

Descending much like beggars to pennies upon the floor.

This old house…closed for repairs…missing steps in the stairs.

Leaking self depreciating humor…encased in toxic rumor.

This old house…if only you had known sooner.

A foundation built on Christ.

Dining in prayer with the Father and a roll of the dice.

‘Come home.’shaker road 1

I shall tell you now.

I shall tell you now…

what all these years…

you have missed.

“Nail and frail and lying low.  A legacy cast no shadow.  For it must have not just shape and form, but contempt for danger…or, it only lay shallow.”

shaker road 5

“Occasionally, we have to take care of those who once…took care of us.  Often leaving, the participants, stuck between wonder-lust and antiquated mistrust.”

Lights at the end of the Tunnel

I wonder if you had been frightened staring down the barrel of a dark tunnel

Now and again, I sneak a peak to where you have gone

I grance and wonder

had the bleak scope made an impact

Did you understand where you stood

had those faint and painful smiles been a matter of what we have always done?

Lying there with your god and your rosaries had there been relief or repentence?

Tunnels have a way of squeezing out the memories

Memories, so long over looked.

In the end of your travels could you stop worrying about that which has not happened yet?

I thought like you…I had been raised to

Not once did the light at the end of the tunnel open up to anything new

Glancing up and around, and threw, as you did, could there ever be all that you wanted to do

These Were the Days

these were the days

a walk through the park to find school

where you did not look like me and that was cool

when a cross is what you wore

how being poor meant you want…needed…more

hatred was a myth and true love was not a choice of sides

living in a rural community came with a deep sense of pride

Nixon had been a joke

our leaders were encourage to enhance hope

these were the days where my peers had a right to be wrong

when constriction left quickly but humbly asked to belong

all eyes were open to all colors

there were three channels and nothing on

these were the days when information did not make me cry

where believing had not left me wondering a collective why

when violence had not been given a side

No photo description available.

Snow white it’s Blue

So snow white it's blue
So snow white it’s blue

Along the route of…

Old is new

Slate to tin roofs.

You can see dusky corn rows

and,

into the heart of tomorrow.

All the while,

snow white sorrow

Pretentious and antiquated and ancient and misspoken.

Glimpses of a past paid for in tokens.

Granite blue and red with sunset morale.

So snow white it's blue
So snow white it’s blue

Deserted fields with one lone buxom cow.

Gingerbread, maple and fire sift the air.

It would seem the newest of England does not care.

A postal box envisioned by primitive design.

Last stop…missing the sign.

Wildlife encounters and other oblique…traveling shows

Mountains upon mountains of nowhere to go.

Snow white would only be fit the beguiled few

“Poetry is what gets lost in translation.”  ― Robert Frost
“Poetry is what gets lost in translation.”
― Robert Frost

A narrow state of mind…nothing new.

Grandpa’s Deere up on wooden blocks.

Too many, too many’s, pawned at the shop.

Looks like Poe’s the raven.

Feels like Frost’s haven.

Fierce farmland, as far as, the vulture flies

Windchill’s torment a native daughter’s third eye.

Styrofoam sounds like dripping mountain dews.

Underneath, snow white so blue.

Piney sap.

So snow white it's blue
So snow white it’s blue

A Mother’s milk and Mother’s mishap.

Skin stretched out over a dimming fall

Stoned in granite over it all.

Scenic one leading to one more.

Agape, another English styled country store.

Clothes lines made up of crippled shaker chairs.

Bumper-ed Harley’s loosing their flare.

So snow white it's blue
So snow white it’s blue

It is a granite state of mind…

Earthen embryo by design…

Winters are so Short by Emily Dickinson

The Winters are so short—
I’m hardly justified
In sending all the Birds away—
And moving into Pod—

Myself—for scarcely settled—
The Phoebes have begun—
And then—it’s time to strike my Tent—
And open House—again—

It’s mostly, interruptions—
My Summer—is despoiled—
Because there was a Winter—once—
And al the Cattle—starved—

And so there was a Deluge—
And swept the World away—
But Ararat’s a Legend—now—
And no one credits Noah—

People Are Crazy, Times Are Strange

 

As a stranger you slipped into my back pocket.

Filling the inset with tokens of good-byes.

Twenty-four hour chips turned over to years of near misses and heavy sighs!

The gravity to our kinship would never correlate on paper.

Before, the gathering, a rainbow’s pride had been just another friendship…

I had learned to hide.

An elk’s ashtray weighed down by Marlboro Reds and Camels.

A one person parade…

Playing out drunken disorderly in a public display of charades.

That is when this belligerent bond had been made.

Babies having babies for greed and doping needs.

 

The rebel in you, as soiled as, the dirt beneath my feet.

And, every time, I picked myself up off the ground…

Your town line is where my grime could be found.

As a strange friend you are the…Acme Staple Factory on a road that dead ends.

My best guess?

No one ever chooses to begin again.

Unless they have a stranger for a strange friend.

 

Things Have Changed – Bob (need I say more) Dylan

A worried man with a worried mind
No one in front of me and nothing behind
There’s a woman on my lap and she’s drinking champagne
Got white skin, got assassin’s eyes
I’m looking up into the sapphire tinted skies
I’m well dressed, waiting on the last train
Standing on the gallows with my head in a noose
Any minute now I’m expecting all hell to break loose
People are crazy and times are strange
I’m locked in tight, I’m out of range
I used to care, but things have changed
This place ain’t doing me any good
I’m in the wrong town, I should be in Hollywood
Just for a second there I thought I saw something move
Gonna take dancing lessons do the jitterbug rag
Ain’t no shortcuts, gonna dress in drag
Only a fool in here would think he’s got anything to prove
Lot of water under the bridge, Lot of other stuff too
Don’t get up gentlemen, I’m only passing through
I’ve been walking forty miles of bad road
If the bible is right, the world will explode
I’ve been trying to get as far away from myself as I can
Some things are too hot to touch
The human mind can only stand so much
You can’t win with a losing hand
Feel like falling in love with the first woman I meet
Putting her in a wheel barrow and wheeling her down the street
I’ve been walking forty miles of bad road
If the bible is right, the world will explode
I’ve been trying to get as far away from myself as I can
Some things are too hot to touch
The human mind can only stand so much
You can’t win with a losing hand
I hurt easy, I just don’t show it
You can hurt someone and not even know it
The next sixty seconds could be like an eternity
Gonna get low down, gonna fly high
All the truth in the world adds up to one big lie
I’m love with a woman who don’t even appeal to me
Mr. Jinx and Miss Lucy, they jumped in the lake
I’m not that eager to make a mistake
I’ve been walking forty miles of bad road
If the bible is right, the world will explode
I’ve been trying to get as far away from myself as I can
Some things are too hot to touch
The human mind can only stand so much
You can’t win with a losing hand

here we go again

here we are again
at the dark edges of an enchanted pond
beauty from fury
fury from beauty
frost on a rose
sun showers
freckles on a dying hand
wild horses in the depths of thicket
ivy on a formidable trail
looking for truth amongst the mystery

here we go again, playing the card game to life
fighting nature as if it were a foe
living in the darkness where light is the only gully to go
we are our only foe

Love Handles

handle-2

I had been willing to remain under a fallen pine tree.

And, of a matter of course, that is where you found me.

Far away from life with my heart left out in the cold.

Kind, as always, you placed it in flip-flops and flannel.

Placed it in a black and white shanty…

and,

Furnished it with love handles.

The Past

I have walked the walk
talked the talk
In the unfolding rain…I find solace.
Between yesterday and tomorrow…the gray.
Between dark and light…hope.
….
Searching the sites of loved one’s lost…a time to relish they no longer have to be here.
Scars float above resentments cast.
Oh, how I long to see the past.
Now is no time between ‘did you see that’ and ‘remember when.’
I worry there is no begin, again.
….
Isolation has come to my home.
Love has not gone.
Everyday the best we can do is live within the dome.
Everyday the best I can do?
Relish the old and disregard the new.

the Beatles

#long hauler #Covid survivor

Apples in the Snow

 

“Catastrophic and immobile.  Delicate and nomadic.  Impaled in blue hue.  Red distended light.  Black shafts that invade plight.  White shards that lay pictured in radiance.  Reflections grazing in the slide show of my mind.  Elemental homage to photos of time.”

What is Hell?

What is Hell?
In accurate words, the devil will grin and state, ‘sin.’
“It is pride that copies humility.”
With red framed eyes, he will state….truth that appears aloof.

Hell?
stubbing a toe
bones that feel like broken pretzels
walking into a low lying limb
visions and impeding thoughts of…
who you once were before
and the truth of one, only one sin.

What is Hell?
an open sore to selective ignorance…
I’ve walked the woods in countless, country miles.
I’ve strolled in ill fashion to the scars, true love, mortality and pain.
Unaware that my own innocence can still remain

Masks

Goddess…

Grant me the serenity to change the things I cannot change

The courage to change the things I can

And, the wisdom to know the difference

https://www.cdc.gov/

Americans are increasingly adopting the use of cloth face masks to slow the spread of COVID-19, and the latest science may convince even more to do so.

Hunting Season

hunting-1

It will be clear.

Those trolls listening both far and near.

Indefinitely indebted but still, I cannot go.

Chivalry in a voice.

These demons up on mountains made by moles…

‘Are not your choice.’

Though, the air I breath is not free.

If I walk away now,

I can own my own feet.

Villains and angels…abound.

Holes in the wall.

Furnace on stall.

There is not enough room on the ark for us all.

I will not choose to take what I need and leave the rest.

Cannot adhere to the father knows best.

hunting-2

Keeping Beauty Alive

 Leaving one door open should not mean we have to close the doors of the past.

Leaving one door open should not mean we have to close the doors of the past.

Hate seems to be the message of the day. An aging planet to which we continue to trash. There is an air of ‘more’…to which there will be far less. Far less love for one another. Far less respect for what we share. Far less respect for how we may differ. Our past is threatening to walk away from us…And, in ending, will turn her back and say,
‘On everyday, of every hour…I have told you that if you are not careful…you will not only be condemned to repeat the horrors of the past. You will, after all, be the very reason the present will be less and less precious. Always embrace the precious present!’

-randomwordbyruth

George Carlin’s wife died early in 2008 and George followed her, dying in July 2008. It is ironic George Carlin – comedian of the 70’s and 80’s – could write something so very eloquent and so very appropriate. An observation by George Carlin:
The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but shorter tempers, wider Freeways, but narrower viewpoints. We spend more, but have less, we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more problems, more medicine, but less wellness.
We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom.
We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.
We’ve learned how to make a living, but not a life. We’ve added years to life not life to years. We’ve been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer space but not inner space. We’ve done larger things, but not better things.
We’ve cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul. We’ve conquered the atom, but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but accomplish less. We’ve learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we communicate less and less.
These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small character, steep profits and shallow relationships. These are the days of two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill. It is a time when there is much in the showroom window and nothing in the stockroom. A time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to share this insight, or to just hit delete.
Remember to spend some time with your loved ones, because they are not going to be around forever.
Remember, say a kind word to someone who looks up to you in awe, because that little person soon will grow up and leave your side.
Remember, to give a warm hug to the one next to you, because that is the only treasure you can give with your heart and it doesn’t cost a cent.
Remember, to say, ‘I love you’ to your partner and your loved ones, but most of all mean it. A kiss and an embrace will mend hurt when it comes from deep inside of you.
Remember to hold hands and cherish the moment for someday that person will not be there again.
Give time to love, give time to speak! And give time to share the precious thoughts in your mind.
And always remember, life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by those moments that take our breath away.
George Carlin

It Has Been Awhile

it has been awhile since I walked a mile in her shoes

this ritual silence has blown away on November wind

uttering the howls of change and broken ceilings

on the ash and cedar decadence and delight on turns of day and night

it has been awhile since I walked a mile in her shoes

to feel the depth of season

to withstand all of foliage debris

to be in a place of all the beauty I can see

The Cure of Troy

Human beings suffer.
They torture one another.
They get hurt and get hard.
No poem or play or song
Can fully right a wrong
Inflicted and endured.
History says, Don’t hope
On the side of the grave,’
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up
And hope and history rhyme.
So hope for a great sea- change
On the far side of revenge.
Believe that a further shore
Is reachable from here.
Believe in miracles.
And cures and healing wells.
Call miracle self-healing,
The utter self revealing
Double-take of feeling.
If there’s fire on the mountain
And lightening and storm
And a god speaks from the sky
That means someone is hearing
The outcry and the birth-cry
Of new life at its term.
It means once in a lifetime
That justice can rise up
And hope and history rhyme.
#Nicola Sturgeon

the Native to the Sun

born on an overcast day 1

There is no way to the out…said, the native to the sun.

Both, tousled with dampness and shrewd behavior.

For some reason, pity beckons us, calls us here, and leaves for months on end.

I have spent a life time running away…

from all that is

dark.

And,

all that is…

gray.

Soon, with life at a crawl…

We will have not choice but to…

Pray for us all!

 

Now That We Have Tasted Hope

Now that we have come out of hiding,
Why would we live again in the tombs we’d made out of our souls?

And the sundered bodies that we’ve reassembled
With prayers and consolations,
What would their torn parts be, other than flesh?

Now that we have tasted hope
And dressed each other’s wounds with the legends of our
oneness
Would we not prefer to close our mouths forever shut
On the wine that swilled inside them?

Having dreamed the same dream,
Having found the water behind a thousand mirages,
Why would we hide from the sun again
Or fear the night sky after we’ve reached the ends of
darkness,
Live in death again after all the life our dead have given us?

Listen to me Zow’ya, Beida, Ajdabya, Tobruk, Nalut,
Listen to me Derna, Musrata, Benghazi, Zintan,
Listen to me houses, alleys, courtyards, and streets that
throng my veins,
Some day soon, in your freed light, in the shade of your
proud trees,
Your excavated heroes will return to their thrones in your
martyrs’ squares,
Lovers will hold each other’s hands.

I need not look far to imagine the nerves dying,
Rejecting the life that blood sends them.
I need not look deep into my past to seek a thousand hopeless vistas.
But now that I have tasted hope
I have fallen into the embrace of my own rugged innocence.

How long were my ancient days?
I no longer care to count.
I no longer care to measure.
How bitter was the bread of bitterness?
I no longer care to recall.

Now that we have tasted hope, this hard-earned crust,
We would sooner die than seek any other taste to life,
Any other way of being human.
#Khaled Mattawa

Do I Give In

I am exhausted from exhaustion

My mind is a fishbowl with too many inhabitants

Do I give in and enjoy a lazy lane

Drape my weary and swollen toes in the icy waters of autumn

I have shed so many diseased tears over an empty couch

so many fears over the days I could embrace

The chills that swaddled from summer’s heat

Friends and fiction and my permenent host

I am exhausted from exhaustion

There is hesitation to my mornings

Disdain for golden leaves falling distant dreams

Normal is not quite what it seems

#longhauler

Blissful Vagabond

blissful vagabond1

There has always been a vast difference between the sum of us and the minute majority minority group aptly named, vagabonds.

vagabond

[vaguh-bond] 

Spell Syllables

  • Synonyms
  • Examples
  • Word Origin

adjective

1.

wandering from place to place without any settled home; nomadic:

a vagabond tribe.

2.

leading an unsettled or carefree life.

3.

disreputable; worthless; shiftless.

4.

of, relating to, or characteristic of a vagabond:

vagabond habits.

5.

having an uncertain or irregular course or direction:

a vagabond voyage.

##

I had the privilege of growing up in an era without phones that attached to the hip or ear or back pocket. My phone was built of empty B and M bean tin cans and string that had been stolen from my brother’s shoes.

Alas, the simple life, ain’t so simple. How often have we heard of snippets/books such as, How to become Rich, How to be a millionaire, Why not be a real estate mogul in three easy steps?

How often has anyone yelled from a broken and abandoned building housing nomads, people living the simple life:

Enter in here and you will learn how to be poor!

Once upon a time, I made enough money to make myself look important without being humble. I also found myself, intrinsically, going nowhere fast. IT hadn’t been that my riches were not full and electric and fancy and top of the line. IT had been that my soul had been admonished with attachments that were nowhere near what my heart desired most.

Course, not being bright or quick to learn, I discovered ‘self’ the hard way with repeated attempts at ignoring the obvious. The donut had been my life and my soul had been the hole. It took two fires, and hopefully it ends at that, to awaken my ignorantly imagined infinitely blissful psyche. As with blissful vagabond 2

most house fires, on both occasions, we had lost what I had assumed was the root of Ruth. Trophies spouting off how wonderful am I, top of the line lesbian wardrobe, a tell tale sign of my physical attributes and assorted vanity items. Note the word, vanity!

After my Higher Power’s second attempt at comedy, the house that Ruth built burning slowly to the ground, I gave up. A surrender of sorts. A fall to the knees in an open corn field. Head to the turbulent sky. Eyes fixed on spirituality’s revelations not mankind or womankind’s justification. I had heard, through the grapevine, that one knows when they have had too much. Internally we are all aware of rock bottoms personal vendetta.

All that has been written is truth. Yet, as I have said, I am a slow and not too steady learner. There are still on and off again moments where I just have to have that third Tablet/Kindle just in case the other two die. Or, times where I say to self, oh, it’s only a dollar. Three or four solar-powered plastic flowers the move via the light won’t hurt anybody.

My family is dysfunction with a capital D. My kin should have a mascot decorated with kitchen knives, bad karma and a scary clown head. They are what they are. And, it takes what it takes.

This time, it took ‘family in crisis’ to snap me to! Not that I had been out purchasing large lots of land and/or placing bets at the local Bingo Hall. But the ‘simple’ life had slowly started its downward descent into bargain basement shopping for the act of pleasuring one’s self with unnecessary plastic objects.

What I saw…when I again, saw the light? Aging parents that had done the best they could with what they were given via their own upbringing. And, I stand here today to tell you, they were given a bag of coal and flour and told to make the most of life with ‘the same shit’ their parents were given. On and on, and on and on, goes the vicious cycle of dysfunctional families.

Oh, physician heal thy self. Or, in this particular case, Zen Buddhist writer and fool, look what you’ve done now! I cannot begin to describe the night terrors. The slumbering sweat I awoke in. And/or the court jester-ing fool I witnessed in the morning mirror.

By slowly avoiding what it takes to ‘keep it simple‘. Which by the way is a hard and repetitive, daily journey into self. By masking myself in society’s masking tape. I forgot the following basic human and humble rules.

Who am I to judge? Judgment or mindfulness? Clinging to attachments can cloud and dilute the truth we all seek. How is it I came out so wonderful? If my parents were such mongers?

Living simply is not for the faint of heart. First step is in realizing that just by breathing, in today’s material world, you will be charged. Second step, going out of the house costs! Be aware that

the moment you step foot out the door; mileage, food, sun, parks and recreation, tagging the dogs, rabies shots and again, stepping out…costs money!blissful vagabond 3

To keep life at a minimum as far as expenditures to the masses, one should always start their journey with a fair to moderate idea of the ‘impact’ walking out the door will have. Life costs everyone. Yet, with education, it can have less impact on those with little means but large dreams.

To me, a vagabond for this century, is more likely free footed with structure.  Not a desperado with lackluster morals.  A vagabond for the current age, moves slightly through their places of the heart…leaving little and absorbing much.

Through the two house fires I have managed to keep three small trinkets of little money value. They are no bigger than an inch tall Snoopy action figures. By action I mean, Snoopy is blowing out birthday candles or napping on his dog house. The figurines were a gift from my father. At the time, his gestures had been in the form of verbal abuse and not typically, heart-felt items bought without premeditated goodness. Times were never filled with Norman Rockwell images of family bliss. My childhood consisted of the wanting to be a ghost. Not seen and not heard. Therefore, the idea of my angered by DNA and childhood poverty, father, giving me something so nonchalant, left and still leaves me…

BREATHLESS and WANTING TO KEEP THINGS SIMPLE

Small Town Notes

Small Town notes:

The secret to living in a small town is knowing when to go!

The town that finds you will bind you!

It’s time to give up the drugs…When the drugs give up on you!

Immoral acts are a prelude to the immoral scars left on you!

You, yourself and someone that looks like you…

Either way your wear your town well.

the baggage, the backtalk, the smell.

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New Hampshire has yet to step away from sedate behavior it has grown accustom to…Franklin is it’s skanky underbelly without under garments!

My Nation Used to…

My Nation used to…
hold my hand against monsters that went bump in the night
She used to…
uplift my adolescent dreams of deciding what is wrong, what is right
My Nation used to applaud strangers
and allow them into our fight
In moments such as these…
darkened by self imposed dread
I had been raised to rally upon character
I had been taught to only bring enough food for everyone
to share, to share, to share.

My Nation used to…
not fear the shadows but embrace the light
She used to…
promote my speech and demote the placard might
Within the consoles of a closet…I could put my thoughts in a box
And,
my Nation used to rally me to fight, fight, fight

Guilty as Charged

guilt-2

To castaway…

The sweats.

The shakes.

Take long morning walks.

One sided talks.

And,

it is not the toll of death…that bring forth the tears.

Nor,

the let’s make pretend and forget…years.

 

Why is it the fractured limb…seems always the last to fall?

Why is it the large than life…pray on the smaller than small?

 

This life of…walking and rolling with the punches…

This feel of…your self motivating guilt…has lost it’s usefulness.

 

I can no longer take hand me down trips.

I may have been bred sick.

But I can choose to not live in your illness.

That is my prayer…as your god is my witness.



 

Daddy by Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,
The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

Walk On

As she walks by in platform sandals

A portrait of pain and strength

The perseverance is aged by a life lived on tanned feet

Innumerable moments there have been since her fervor has strolled by my door

Timeless panicked seconds when she should stay but still she goes

Not always red, white or blue but forever a rainbow hue

I am needlepoint aware of where she walks today

She strides by with mask on and alms shared

It is not up to me to cast doubt upon whom else be within her infantry

To ponder her journey requires me to be just another enemy

Dreaming in Texture

Empty manifestations with minds of their own.

But will first blush, allow for separation of church and body?

In the bronze light of smoke-filled ambivalent days,

azure skies.

Course,

I have never liked blue.

Considering it always looked pungent on you.

Why is it…only in the light of night,

you clearly,

always,

wanted more for less?

No matter,

past or present,

dreams are in texture

and

color in screams.

Faded rust,

peppered with,

a crunch,

beneath bare-feet.

Nighttime in fallen leaf.

Purposeful Mimicry

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In the best of company

Harmony days hand-picked for setting the baggage free.

Never far away from the mountain of tempestuous temperatures.

I had knocked on heaven’s door…

But in truth, it took one knock more.

My nemesis is my best friend.

On that outward voices can depend.

Pointing out my flaws…with no compliance to chivalry.

Directing my defects with purposeful mimicry.

He, she or it…the devil’s personal dictator.

Always in the background portraying a self-indulgent Master Piece theater…narrator.

the-future-of-farms-6

 

future-of-farms-1 the-future-of-farms-4

Lastly, Last Night

imageedit_42_7905039574

Lastly, last night’s vigil…

I could not write you a love song.

I would not know where to start.

But last night’s vigil,

reaching for you is where it turns the light from the dark.

My words have never been acquainted with eloquence.

Yet, then came the touch of your skin.

The simplest gesture for many years…unrecognized.

Truest freedom is to lay down by your side.

Misguided romance and nightly party favors,

had been my used to be, host.

Anger’s undercover liaison.

Who had promised to protect me from me.

Hostage of the Heart…had been the bedtime tale.

Spoken words intended to make the strong frail.

Through the trail of fears,

you have taken back my night.

Lastly, last night, you lay beside me…as you always have.

As always, daring me to care.

Lastly, last night’s vigil.

Home at last.

Lastly, last night.

Home at last.

imageedit_57_5915917534

 

 

When Great Trees Fall

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.

-Maya Angelou

What is Less Sought

down in the hollows where my secrets lie

I do not know where but I am certain I know why

aware of the grasshoppers, thundering under potted ferns and cemented angels

these unvetted prophecies kick the dirt out of my mind…time to time

but when internal misery comes by…when it is less sought

it beckons by in a flood of wrongs not what is just my simple ‘lot’

I visited my blood in a sense of duty to dust away my plights, my faults

appealing to the autumn breeze I could not let go of…

I am not you

I can be love

But Still

but still 2

Outside looking in

Clearly I cannot forget the tips of your tears falling

and

your..calling…of my name.

Or, black satin draped windows…

claiming love’s soul.

Years have collected

clarity has cast perspective.

but still 1

But still…

I wonder

Did I disable you?

But still the night scares take you

Away,

away,

from me.

It’s easy enough to let shoes drop…

where they may.

Little pills

pink and blue

The devil had taken your dues.

Every tide that becomes the ocean

Every leaf on every fallen tree

no deeper than…

Every trial,

every fleeting glance,

But still,

what of destiny?

But still,

in goodness

shall

we look back?

And,

Stumble

and

fall.

But still,

with fist full of shortcomings

 my love for you will stand tall.

In everyone of our love’s season

whatever the deep need of your demons

I vow to be your voice of reason.

but still 4
Wear your love for someone as though…it were the first day of school!

Something is Coming Toward Us – Alli Warren

Flaunting in the atrium, ostentatious at the gates
I saw a shooting star thru a window on Alcatraz Ave
& cladding struck up against those who demand
We stomach the stick and tend the commode
They’re selling trees in the paint store! trees in the paint store
Datebook chips in the soft skin of our wrists
On NBC, CNN, and NPR broken windows are weeping
We’ll have 35 apples and shrieking in the thickets
Aloft in the air golden and golden the dial among the mounds
So much is stunted in understanding of what a light can be
They storm the scrimmage line and clear-cut bran and germ
We want the petal unto itself, the unalterable vessel
The arc end of the precipice grows 1.9% annually
What was popular music like before the crisis?

Burn Lake

As the flame danced with the wind and the embers

Amber rekindled with the forsaken ash

The storm clouds pulled away

and another blue moon felt its shadow cast.

Night time ran into dawn.

Soft petals of raindrops fell upon the newly shaved lawn.

Finally, with the loons echo of goodnight.

Burns lake came up and out of sight.

It is a slippery slope living among the mortals

There is no right

There is no wrong

There is no place to belong.

Yet, late in the evening

Perhaps just before dawn

the symphony of earth angels mime in song.

Yet, late in the afternoon

Just before the sun turns to warm

Out on the lake you can see it…

if you do not look too long.

Out on the lake, it could be said

At any of God’s moments

At any miscues of time

There is an undeniable rhythm with the earth

An indisputable rhyme.

Backwoods

farmhouse by the side of the road

dogs loved and lost

sumac fading to rose

where have you been?

what have you been told?

a warm rain dribbles on my mountain pained skin

alerting me…simplicity must come around again

there has been no shame to the backroads, traveled from within

lost in the wandering towards autumn’s color

reminds me of the hot touch of sun on cotton

have I traveled so far that there maybe a rejection of nature’s law

or, is there possibility that I can wait until spring’s thaw?

Write to Wander

write to wander 4

It is a time to time

One of a kind..

ZEN.

Echoed places joined by lost traces.

Occasional small town places

filled with

postcards, wildlife…

kind native faces.

Here and there.

All in one plots of…

not so fallen graces.

write to wander 4I am the trapped stone beneath the

fallen tree trunk and her roots.

Peacefully

unaware

of things

left to do.

‘Had a nightmare last night…about having nothing to write about. No more, needs, wants, take or give. No love or hate! This morning I began to think about the squirrels nesting in our trees. How they are throwing acorns down at me…taunting me in protest of their lack of food. As typical, my mind wandered to such things as; what is the gestation period of a squirrel? Why are they so loud when they are giving birth? Which sex, male or female…goes out and brings the ‘acorn’ home? And, which sex gets to play stay at home parent? And, suddenly, the nightmare went away. And, the writer’s world became…okay!’

-Robert Frost-

Franconia Notch NH

To Earthward

Robert Frost Farm Franconia NH the Earthward
Robert Frost Farm
Franconia NH
to Earthward

Where the Wind Blows

winds-2

I ache, like the fallen tree before me.

These farming fields so…solemn, soulful and, slightly…alone.

Peace is here.

It is in the catching of our breath.

Flying on gusts for a thousand miles.

I could find the unity…

If, the terrain, and I, were all that is left.

It has been windy here.

Seems…for a whole life.

Perhaps, that is what feeds a New England appetite.