Forgotten Song

The violets had been bought for the green-eyed lady.

However, I had arrived beyond late…

Within moments, she reigned upon my mind…

And, later, she had gone.

Trickling down…

Such as forgotten words to her favorite song.

Soon I began to misplace her solemn heirlooms.


stories and tales the green-eyed lady had gifted me.

Then ashes turned to ashes.

Dust to dust.


in finality…

Nothing had been worth remembering.

Stone turned to rust.

Hidden on Commercial Street

Flipping of a coin from tail to head.

cart-wheels on the beach.

Drag Queen working the beat on Commercial street.

Bare-footing, on the sultry tar.

Hidden seaport cemeteries overgrown with unknown kin.

Similar searches…

Performed like a well manicured dance from centuries ago.

Gentle Journeymen and Women with unease being the common goal.

A sense of unique sadness for each seeker.

Respectively, all grinding down to the marrow.

Sure as there is salt in the blood.

And, annoyance from the misread.

If I could prosper my soul in this secret search.

I would unleash all that I have.

But cannot be bought.


most likely,

I would rather stay a seeker.

Romanizing tales of lost love…

And, her deceivers.


the Middle Stooge

“I pack them up.  As if they have a choice!   Course, it has been sometime, since they have had no voice.  And, as always, 90’s Reggae, is the preferred noise.  

I have watched them grow.

They have watched me age.

There is never any wonder as to who is the wiser Sage.

It hasn’t been long.  Since we have saved each other from our perspective cage.

Trite as a, love song.

And, with paw’s crossed.

Gone to the dogs…

Is where I belong.

Unleashed and unplugged.

In my dog’s presence.

There is no minor chord.

Everything or nothing…

Needs to be done.

It is a wealth of knowledge.

We all receive.

The meaning of life.

Placed in the chase of a falling leaf.

To the dogs,

I am the middle stooge.

In a bout of frenzy.

A link in the chain.

There is unquestionable trust.  Their curiosity…I envy.

At the end of the day.  Just as countless times before.

We walk together.  Through that old familiar door.

With mud on our heels.  And, the smell of earth on our skin.

Only to await tomorrow.  Where we can begin our journey…Once again.”

Carry On

Some days, no matter the physical, spiritual, mental, discomfort.  The best we can hope for is to…


We are shining stars
We are invincible
We are who we are
On our darkest day
When we’re miles away
So we’ll come, we will find our way home

Though I’ve never been through hell like that
I’ve closed enough windows to know you can never look back
If you’re lost and alone
Or you’re sinking like a stone
Carry on
May your past be the sound of your feet upon the ground
Carry on

Jeff Bhasker, Andrew Dost, Jack Antonoff, Nate Ruess


Funeral Flowers

Nonsensical, since the day the illusion was conceived.

An American haunting.

Where homeless funeral flowers, long since dead and gone…

Are the only remnants left for a breaking dawn.


Perhaps, a ‘song of silence’ could be how to truly run away from me.

This watchful adjustment, travels great heights.

Forms an ache around my feet.

Stares at me…from the backseat.

And, the only retreat?

An occasion fitful sleep.


In the gray lace to an ivory cloud.

You take hold.

The ‘perhaps of life’…

Occurring more often than I had once been told.


Your haunting.

Your notions…

Will stay with me until I am beyond old.

“The residual of Catholicism, hangs off me.  Like a veil of cigarette smoke.  The fear?   Who or what will judge me next!”

Granite Labyrinth

Rummaging early.

There had never been a cave to hide my heart.

As the strings pulled…

Auspicious had been the woods, the hearth…

The mangled weeded twine beneath my bare-feet…

Had been only make-believe.

An exclusive story for my yearned for retreat.

With a long, last.

A dog, a butterfly.

A road that leads me nowhere.

Roots that lent a sturdy tie.

Slander can only arise from my perched lips.

Though a rail leads the transient way.

Visions of grandeur descend atop granite steps.

No longer does the travel need scornful say.

A Woodsy Appeal

I drive these back roads…



reminded of home.

Long, desperate, going places that have passed along.

Gritty browns with nameless…greens.

A picturesque, quaint, scene.


Of course,

I have aged like farm-stand cheddar.

Tart but tasteful. with a woodsy trace.

Though life has sped up.

I manage to find a slower pace.


In a quest for deeper appreciation…

I delve further.

Windows down…

Listening for a weathered sound.


There are no wrong turns…

In my veiled valleys.

Just moss under my wheels.

And, a love for nature’s folly.

On the Boardwalk

Sometimes, it is misery that brings me here.

I once a year declaration to a mirage so close…So near.

With further toil.

I know that is not the end result.

Turmoil…being the Utopian lack of doubt.

The salt that falls between the crack in the lines.

No requiem for heat.

No casket for pine.

Only a thirst in search of drunken kind.

Wheels humming to a string quartet.

Rhythm settling down to wheels on indifferent surface.

A beat lays waste to smells of words not met.

There is sweat, exhaust…

There is dread.

Nine months set to the surface of not digging too deep.

Ten months begin the tapping of my feet.

By the time a call has been sent out.

The fear is gone.

There is no doubt.




Bye and Not Gone

Never much for memories.

Not much for tell-tale songs.

But I loaded up today…

And, I had been brought back to the notion…

That you were gone.


It had not been the sun.

It had not been the warmth.

It had been simply…

‘fare thee, well.’


Mystery starts in all that it holds.

Items, trinkets, bronze, gold.

A step forward began my recovery.

Yet, intricate bygone thoughts…

Aid to the past and its discovery.


Laden down in daily routine.

Are all my in-between.

For now…

And, perhaps, for the moments that keep calling…

I will live in the make-believe.


An Innocent Venture

If I asked you not to open that box.

Would you not?

Knowing all that I have not got?

It is a box like none other.

As I am sure, you are aware.

There are no smooth wooden planks.

It was not produce for comfort.

Nor, speed.

Though, build with love in mind.

It did not come from sturdy stock.

A bad seed.

The killing kind.

Many have traveled to my boxed up past.

To see what it is made of.


many have learned they could not rise above.


in truth,

I am just a box living outside of my box.

Flesh and bone.

Soul of solid stone.


upon the opening of my box…

It has been best to go it alone.

But with great courage.

You have decided to make my woes your own.

Sometimes it takes the innocent to venture into the great unknown.

Inaccurate Moments

I would stand in my darkest dawn.

To bring you home from your innermost prison.

The deepest desire to love you.

Love us.

Clarifies best…

Most on partially cloudy days.

With pockets of warmth from the sun’s rays.

When the waters recede.

And, there is dew on my shoes.

Inaccurate moments…

When I fall back in love with you.

Pride for the Next Generation

“All young people, regardless of sexual orientation or identity, deserve a safe and supportive environment in which to achieve their full potential.”


Harvey Milk

I found the minute that questions surfaced, with my inner self…I began to trust less.  The minute I began to dislike my choices…The more I paid into the ‘oppressed minority!’



Amazon in Bohemian Clothes!

It does no good to look toward pain for, yet, another day.

It will await me either way.

IT will hold my hand, as it always does.

Making love to me with ITS vicious touch.

I will pay respect to the searing stab, as I always do.

I will allot transgressions…their due.


But I am a proud woman warrior in bohemian clothes.

And, as vague ability diminishes.

So shall my inner strength grow.

Any day,

when the battle between pain and I reunite…

I will go on fighting well into the night.

Do Not Go Gently

I lay my head down last night.  Feeling a physical ache that not a word can describe.  I wanted to wallow in my pity.  I wanted to dunk way down into the depth of ‘what I can no longer do…’self reflection!  I have Degenerative Disc Disease.  Title or no title, medical term or not.  I often believe myself to have a pain so significant…It is a suffering not a soul born…has witnessed…AS I have.

There are moments in which I give time its due.  Promise the Powers that Be…’You can take me now!’  I am not suicidal.  I am in electrifying misery.   The Devil, Melancholy, can have what is reusable of my…Physical Self.

It seems at wit’s end.  When I envision; No more long walks in the wilderness, no hiking, no photography, no paying homage to the Mother Earth…That through a special blend of compassion, wisdom and self seeking…I find at the end of my rope?  A trinket that has been there all along.  I just did not look deep enough!

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

When Worlds Collide

I cannot count the years I fought.

To get away from you.

And, as I reach for that always distant pen…

I cannot bring myself to describe the where, the when.

Reaching with youthful hand.

Stretching with gnarled fist.

Someday, freedom will receive its wish.

When the secular hold opens a book.

From new to old.

In great expectation, what was given as half truth.

Will soon become…a healing roof.


Walking in Recovery

Flying solo amid the haunted thicket.

A travesty of my imperfections bad luck?

Getting the misguides…wrong.

For even a gimpy, imp, knows.

It takes two to belong.

When I attempted to travel the mist with loneliness in my heart.

My shortcomings were longer than the sum of all their parts.

With gumption…tangled in corruption, stumbling toward inadequacy.

An angry overgrowth in the dented can to recovery.

Distance ahead would mean retaining…

The poisoned ivy to my lonesome itch.

Only need produced a friend to wander down the damaged ditch.

In the landslide of pointing fingers at ‘letting go of holding on?’

Recovery was…

Recovery is…

‘It takes two to find the right side of wrong.’



Be Still the Lonely Chair

Still, the lonely chair.

Sometimes placed as if, to beckon another.

But below the begrudged earth…

No soul mate arises from the turf.


When well in mind.

When composed in soul.

I travel by the place that claimed to make my youth whole.


Though the canvas seat is aware of my grace.

Not a body to claim my face.

Profound is the dirt that gathers the whole.

Anguish the chrome contemplation of an  adrift soul.


Containing the Fears


With the earth wrung out from the tears.

Moving waters…stood fast.

Closing in.

Containing the fears.

Languishing over the legitimacy of soil and its girth.

Many steps were taken.

I was not.

I am not.

A plot of plans…first.

Laying beneath the toil.

Conceivably, annoyance, rain, sun!

Destruction’s attempt at love.

In the dim light of awakening…my hesitancy would not rise above.


Though, I have lived to come on strong.

Resilience in requiem’s way…For now, cannot be swayed.

Always, undisturbed, yet, perturbed…

For my part, I cannot…will not give in to the powers that may be.

Until the end of Me…

I refuse to believe what others choose to see.



Common Call

Sticks and stones.
Battle zones.
A single light bulb.
On a single thread for the black sirens wail.
History fails.
Rose-colored glass begins to age and crack.
While the politicians shadowbox.
The power ring in an endless split decision.
Never solve anything from a neighbor’s distant land.
I heard the strain of the common man.

Well the world seems spent.
And, the president has no good idea.
Of who the masses are.
Well I’m one of them!
And,  I’m among friends
We’re trying to see beyond the fences in our own backyards.
I’ve seen the kingdoms blow.
Like ashes in the winds of change.
But the power of truth?
Is the fuel for the flame!
So the darker the ages get…
There’s a stronger beacon yet.

Let it be me!
If the world is night.
Shine my life…like a light.

In the kind word you speak…

In the turn of the cheek…

When your vision stays clear…
In the face of your fear…
Then you see turning out a light switch.
Is their only power.
When we stand like spotlights.
In a mighty tower.
All for one… And, one for all.
Then we sing the common call!

This is not a fighting song.

Not a wrong for a wrong!

Indigo Girls – Let It Be Me


A Whistle from the Birch

Ominous, as the whistle through the birch.

Watchful eyes.

Vacant as the day, they left this earth.

A distant voice.

Peaceful with the way we hurt.

Primitive in an organic manner.

Crowded blank, planks.

Rotten with the insight.

A casualty has come to stay.

Isolated, during early morning…

When the sun rests behind shade.

A time…

When the wind calls her name.

Born to a similar batch of thorns.

I came in search of sameness.

But from a different point of view.

Deep in the knotted, hollow…

My attempt at name calling, a bit askew.

The small town in me…

Brought distant sounds closer.


scouring me of victim’s debris.

A voice…



knocking on wood.

In the cleanse of a passing shower.

A calling from above,

‘I would let go…If I only could.’



Influenced By…Spring

“Some people find fall depressing, others hate spring. I’ve always been a spring person myself. All that growth, you can feel Nature groaning, the old bitch; she doesn’t want to do it, not again, no, anything but that, but she has to. It’s a fucking torture rack, all that budding and pushing, the sap up the tree trunks, the weeds and the insects getting set to fight it out once again, the seeds trying to remember how the hell the DNA is supposed to go, all that competition for a little bit of nitrogen; Christ, it’s cruel”

**John Updike/Witches of Eastwick


I Wish

I wish I were a lingering cloud.

I would never have let you down.

I wish I were a great boulder.

Better able to withstand the storm.

I wish I were a great manuscript.

My words would be my bond.

I wish I were a lilac.

A forever remembrance of summer’s song.

I wish I were the sacred night.

And, the rebirth that comes with morning’s light.

I wish I were a glistening river.

To soothe yours needs.

I hope to transcend the ugliness.

And, believe in beauty…

As you believe.


Wingless Bird

On a clear morning…

Fable tells.

You can see forever.


as deep as,

a wishing well.


But the dawn had not promised me,  as much as…

The fate’s fortune.

Only pixie, pose and promise.


High up on a tower.

Could I have asked for more.

A whisper…

Perhaps, wingless bird alit.

This is when time will tell to soar.

Between a Poem and a Reflection

I brought my misery and discomfort down to the water.

Washing the pain.

As if it were both sane and insane.

Rolling it over.

Caressing all sides.

A loose hallucinogenic thought from my…forever tousled head.

Death, be not a, pebble or diamond…

That is mulled over in the rough.

Neither fractured.

Or, whole.

No matter, how minuscule.

Just a stone in Mother Nature’s fold.

A pyre to the edges of nowhere…

Ashes to dust.

Glacier to granite to simple coal.

Sweet and salty remembrances.

Shattered and whole.

Such meditative collections of, loss and death.

Infinitely too much for my human intake.

Thus, with precious stone, in hand.

I gave a toss to roving waters.

A physical attempt to disperse the grief.

And, with a shy landing,

ripples ensued.

Setting into motion…

Life as it collides.

With both the light and the dark, sides.

dedicated to Janice Bowley – 10/1940 – 5/2017

There is a road, no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night.

Ripple/ the Grateful Dead

Rustic Pardoning

From the, getting gone, polyester blanket…of another’s memories.

An apparition approached with no words to spare.

A vacant troth with not a single pitcher to fill her.

In the restraint of ghostly disarray.

A mongrel for written word…

I had nothing to say.

So much had been our way of caring without sharing.

A home-built for show.

Rustic pardoning of stain and cedar.

Secluded, even when wrapped in Christmas garland.

Innocence, here…had been given no pardon.

I could not then.

And, cannot still.

Contend with a ghost so frail.

Caught up in the pinnacles of life, I am but a mistaken void.

A template for those who neglect…

Or, simply, annoyed.

A fragrant weed behind a nameless graveyard.

Someone ghosts can yield and avoid.

Profound is the Coven


Just does not emerge correctly.

What has been…

What is left to be seen!

The fallen, who have encompassed their way round unmindful feet.

Crisped, insightful, deliberate, not by their own nature, everlasting…for another’s defeat.

The seasons have rearranged.

And, lost the entitled, in winds that ravaged.

In complacency, an aloof being, would use the expression…Savage.

Profound is the coven.

The ordained by hands of another.

Another who does not speak.

Yet, awaits a vale…to peak.

Mum, are the reptiles, the flora, the fauna…

A universe of beauty under soil’s sheet.

Thus they lay, in refinement, under my obtuse feet.

Making Sunshine

13th day of dismal, delinquent weather!  Today, I must make my own sunshine!


“My uncle ordered popovers
from the restaurant’s bill of fare.
And, when they were served,
he regarded them with a penetrating stare.
Then he spoke great words of wisdom
as he sat there on that chair:
“To eat these things,” said my uncle,
“You must exercise great care.
You may swallow down what’s solid,
but you must spit out the air!”
And as you partake of the world’s bill of fare,
that’s darned good advice to follow.
Do a lot of spitting out the hot air.
And be careful what you swallow.”

Dr. Seuss



Postscript and Flowers

I held her hand.

And, kissed her faded, freckled, brow.

This undulating figure…

Had been my mother, somehow.

Beyond caring and back…

What a heavy load!

Beyond the walls of sleep…

A figure, growing tired, getting old.

Ancient birthday cards fall to my bedroom floor.

Could it be?

We both, deserved a little bit more!

Sepia memories, like a spot of grass.

Forever worn…

Forever brown.

In her listless, cool, hand, rings of emerald and amethyst.

Looking between the lifelines.

A road-map always…soft and delicate.

How strange they beg to fight…now!

Peculiar, someone can be prepared.

 B ut not ready for their final bow.

Beyond caring.

Beyond the walls of sleep.

A reunion left out in the rain.

PostScript and flowers…

all that remains.

Interview with an Old Dog

Dog that has grown old.

What use am I to you?

Does the time we have shared encompass your bed?

Do my words of comfort…

Rest your weary head?

Will our days of glory…

Remind you of time being short?

With confidence…

Understand where this homily leads…

You have protected me from monsters…

Both seen and unseen.

Daily Meditation of a Democrat

In the turmoil…that is when faith works best-RandomwordbyRuth

My faith demands – this is not optional – my faith demands that I do whatever I can, wherever I can, whenever I can, for as long as I can with whatever I have to try to make a difference…

America did not invent human rights. In a very real sense… human rights invented America.

##Jimmy Carter

Aesthetics of Gray on Green

Aesthetics of Gray on Green


Typically, known as a, New Hampshire Spring

A beautiful release from the powerful grip of everyday showers.

With lunacy absconding, along the lines of gray.

Aesthetics of green surround the heart.

As though, a welcoming hand…waiting to receive.

Sow the sweet.

Grow the bitterness…in-between.

So I must feel the truth.

As  I do the dirt beneath my nails.

As certain as, the reasoning for the sun to pale.


Old Home Days

Slipping over my head.

As though, it had been there all along.

A gift of instilled courage, love and Styrofoam.

A hat of…

white, red and blue.

Alas, for twenty-five cents, I could do no wrong.

Under the wide brim.

Freckles expanding with the sun’s glare.

If memory serves me right.

It would be the first and the last time…

My grandfather seemed to care.

Forever, the stoic Irish Cop.

During games of skill and chance…

His judging frown let go its muster.

Odd in my innocence…

There was an awareness to our kinship.

As though, my blood lack luster.

Old Home Days brought a Rockwell grandfather back to me.

The kind children yearn for.

Softhearted elders…

telling tales of fabled glory.

The sort that… bounce you on their knees.


I have a hundred hats or so.

And, that is not accounting for cherished ones…I let go.


I am always dressing for that knock off Old Home Day…hat.

The one with white, red and blue ribbon…dangling in the back.

Sketchy Indulgence

Restraint by a shaft of evidence.


Not conclusive to ideals.

A melancholy orange…peeled.

Is it  vanity that brings me here?

For every indulgence that tells me, no.

For all the voices that fill an empty village and clutter the soul.

In the belly below a need arises from reflective window.

Such visions of clarity when I ‘cannot see myself as others do.’

Just snippets of what I used to do.

Sketched among the floundering breeze.

Simple recollections not made to appease.


Strange in Paradise

There is peace on my mind.  But in a fit of sanity, I placed it down deep where no one goes.

I had been waiting for the sun to come out and, ‘Hi.’

However, like a cat in the night searching for non-existent light.

Sometimes, satisfaction is a message I cannot always find.

With a fluent tie-dye sky set into minutes of changing moods; A revelation, of sorts.  Mystically, set in writing, to grammar school, red…

“Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it.” Dalai Lama

“I can be in over my head.  But, contentment…Will always be…A pet that needs to be watered and fed!”

Contemplating Sideways and Steve McQueen

Contemplated sideways…The hounds of hectic thought, kept me up all night.  Slanting and aside…Came accompanied with sky?  Why so blue?  Tied together with…What makes dragon’s blood?  And, the myth of Elvis!  

If my mind were a jukebox…It would only play my favorite song.  

Something about…

‘Where have all the heroes gone?’

I worked this, kink in my mind’s wagon, out years ago.  Such as agreeing to live like a Tilt-A-Whirl.

Spinning in the same circle.  But forever finding a new way to enjoy the thrill!

We got rock stars in the White House
All our pop stars look like porn
All my heroes hit the highway
They don’t hang out here no more

the Peasant

Suffering indigent.


But it is the land that keeps us.


sets us free.

Each to their own poetic imagery.

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning.
Born of the one light Eden saw play.
Praise with elation, praise every morning;
God’s recreation of the new day.



Naturally Devoted

If I could wrap the forest in my arms…

I would, with due course,

have abundant charm.

Had life dealt me another hand…

I would be synthetically impoverished…

As in the cloth,

in which I stand.

A mere entity,

am I.

Nothing to relish.

Nothing to deny.


I will crawl before the ever-present gift.

The elms.

The oaks.

The creatures.

The wooded abyss.

I will stumble and scramble.

Until my last breath.

Before nature…

I avow my devotion.

Though it render no romantic notion.


This is what you shall do; Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.  

Walt Whitman


My Life or Yours?


I wake and see her everyday.  I do not tire of this.  As her movements emblazoned themselves in my memories.  All that is  around me?  Unimportant.

I have told my wife so often…I love you.  Soon, I love you, becomes commonplace and ill-fitting.  What is more fitting?  She is my life!  For living would hold no charm without her in it.

“One day you will ask me which is more important? My life or yours? I will say mine and you will walk away not knowing that you are my life.”
Kahlil Gibran

Giving Way to Simplicity


a lovely indulgence day.

The sweet taste of commonplace sentiment…

Just as tantalizing as dandelion wine.

Almost June…Beetles,

clinging to sun’s light.

Dawn basking in the riches given by night.

Must remember…

Happenstance is just a ritual to portray.

Before all,

this is the house that Mother built.

An after thought to a handmade quilt.

What is purposeful disarray.

Only cluttered calming…meaningful displays.

Well anchored needled pines.

Colorful moments for the ravaged mind.

A landscape so bitter…

It becomes overly kind.


A View from the Top

A view from the top.

What a sensation that must be.

Watching and waiting…

as the tribes scurry about in day-to-day mystery.

No chastity.

No lace.

No preface for humanity’s race.

I cherish the scurrying above.

Lackluster…we are taught.

Maleficent is the average lot.

Nay, say, I!

How adventurous it would be.

Predestined to shine down.

And, witness what others do not see.

Backyard Meditation


Creature so great
Creature so small.
So enticing to see them all.
I could spend the day transfixed.
Grace in their gathering.
Discipline in their gait.
Hero to the backyard.
Nothing in there is of waste.
If I had chance to name one, or two, or three.
That would over simplify my needs.
For I am only human.
And, these creatures of the backyard…
Live beyond anything I know.
They do not look at life with such disregard.

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


spurs of last year’s wood.

Never any thought to…rest assured.

Organic manner of giving the land a manicure.



Shallow Shelter

There cannot be a blind eye…turned to the adversary of my kind.

No indifferent far off shallow shelter.

Hate can have a twin.

But hate cannot survive in a well-oiled, painting from the walls of my mind.

I am not a lone survivor.

Just another brave companion to the road.

I am a survivor.

Brave companion to the road.

Idle Thoughts on a Gravel Road

The air is ripe with mustard, sweet and sour.

Leaflet of grass…

Drenched in clove.

Green onion accosting the gravel road…

And, heaven’s above.

No trails to speak.

Just an agreeable, steered,  waif.

A four-legged creature…

Somewhat close to the ground.

Lumber some, oh the glory of!

In and out of sight…without a sound.

Narrowing Sky

There are no easy roads.

Street lights still hang.

Ever so mysteriously by night’s glare.

Grave gazers still know the secret for infinity’s love.

Pain learns to stay…

With or without reward.

Sad goodbyes, linger long after the spoken word.

As narrowing sky falls to the ground…

Dressed as, urban decay.

Sultry poignant awe grabs the dreamer.

And, creates poetic disarray.

Perhaps, neither plight nor fight stops some in their solid stance.

Perhaps, it is simply the chance to join in the dance.

Cajoling Innocence

I maintain that there is a desperate social need for the creative behavior of creative individuals…

In a time when knowledge, constructive and destructive, is advancing by the most incredible leaps and bounds into a fantastic atomic age, genuinely creative adaptation seems to represent the only possibility that we can keep abreast of the kaleidoscopic change in this world….

Unless we can make new and original adaptations to our environment as rapidly as our science can change the environment, our culture will perish…

Not only the individual and group tensions but international annihilation will be the price we pay for lack of creativity.

Carl Rogers, Humanist, 1973

Cajoling Ignorance

The good, the bad, the beautiful and the ugly. The age of perpetual need lay at our feet.  The good earth, in retreat.

My looks have hardened over time.  But not so much that I still cannot see we are killing the forests…for a tree.

As snow melts away toward another day.

It is hard cajoling…ignorance out of the way.

So much more than, poetry that litters the land.

Repercussions that will out live ‘what we have come to understand.’

An elder once disposed upon me.  An ominous premonition:

“I will not live long enough to witness climatic chaos.  And, I am very thankful for that.”

Reflecting back to that cynical conceit.  From a man…with affect so flat.

Just one thought…

‘It is often bumbling errors that turn into trashy fact.’


Bruised Impressions

Ran vagary over and over.

As if,

smitten by a nemesis of a four-leaf clover.

There is no supremacy here, there or…anywhere.

We all are diminished by the same bed of rock.

No matter the choice.

No matter the manner in which we leave a bruised impression.

Each to their own.

Put to rest by the same hand.

Only our vanity chooses…

Woman or man.

In…Mother’s Nature, she keeps me

she keeps me 2


In Mother’s Nature…

She keeps me gentle

She keeps me sapient

She keeps me legitimate

She keeps me with timeless testsshe keeps me 3

She keeps me with flesh

She keeps me with dignity

She keeps me shady

She keeps me with chemistry

She keeps me with fragile, breakable reverie

She keeps me

She keeps me

she keeps me 4

…a most indulgent mother, has placed her best gifts out in the open, like air, water and the earth itself; vain and unprofitable things she has hidden away in remote places.
##Thomas More



Dame Nature

Modest and without presumptions, pursue nature with truth.

In the lush scenery step as though, progress is not a need.

Tread with the style in which…Dame Nature deems courtly

Picket fences no longer impede progress. no more than wilted, emerald…

scenery.ying yang 1


Saint Gertrude Day!(a day late)

A Prayer to St. Gertrude, Patron Saint of Cats

Dearest Gertie, ask you I pray…

watch over the evil little cats…this and everyday.

Protect them from those who wish them ill.

Keep them at home…four tiny paws…safe from the snowstorm.

Give me the serenity to accept their indifference to me.

                the courage to be humble in their presence

and…     the wisdom to hide all breakables I wish to keep.

Protect my lawn furniture from the neighborhood Tom Cat.

And, Gert, a last thing I beseech from thee.

Please don’t let them kill me in my sleep.




Patron Saint of Cats…Sista Gert believed in her visions.  She believed in purgatory.  She believed…rodents, mice, etc., were handmaiden’s to hell’s highway.  The only way to rid the heavens and earth of this evil?  Cats!

Which as a cat owner, I can now understand.  Gert knew that there was a hell out there.  Possibly she had a ‘vision’ of where we now stand with Trump.  One thing led to another.  The ‘visions’ got worse.  Hell came in the form of rats.  And, Gert did not figure out until late in life…get a cat!

The cat solved the infestation.tumblr_p5qjeh6jca1rmxjpho1_540

So she chilled, as she grew older, with cats.

Hence Patron Saint of Cats!


Love Before

A preacher’s hands, faded from dust and copper.

An orator’s trade loud with the sounds of rustling hearts.

Let you love now…

For you knew not love before.

And, imageedit_6_5466770984

If you love now.



some more.”

“For love is never doomed to be mourned.”


Four Leaf Clover


May the blessings of light be upon you,

Light without and light within.

And in all your comings and goings,

May you ever have a kindly greeting

From them you meet along the road.


May you have no frost on your spuds!

Term – W.S. Merwin


At last minute a word is waiting

not heard that way before and not to be repeated or ever be remembered

one that always had been a household word

used in speaking of the ordinary everyday recurrences of living

not newly chosen or long considered

or a matter for comment afterward

who would have thought it was the one

saying itself from the beginning through

all its uses and circumstances to utter at last that meaning of its own

for which it had long been the only word

though it seems now that any word would do

w.s. merwin 1927-2019/R.I.P.