Paths Crossing in the Night

A rush of water reminds me of night

Something, I can see but…

is vacantly out of sight.

Dark as it may be,

the earth blankets me.

It covers me with luminescent sky.

Warning me to,

look behind words.

To pull truth from starred gods and…

listen in silence…

to be heard.

This love affair with mother nature has been such as,

a blind date.

a sideways glance from a well versed stranger.

Hints of dodging raindrops.

Nights when paths cross

and

dreams are caught.

Of Dogs and Gods

I adore the echo a dog creates,

as it gallops full throttle with

no particular place to go.

The clamor contentment provides while

back scratching in the snow.

The sound of patience whilst on the hunt for crow.

Sounds like thunder

Smells like rain

Feels like dog and the gods, are one in the same.

Shame, Shame, Shame

Shame, shame, shame, shame on you
I bet you think that you’re a big man now
But I think you’re a sick man now
And you don’t know how to be a good man too
Isn’t it time to call this big dog out for our misery?!

Winter's Beach

Simple, a winter’s beach confronting a warm retreat.

Playing the fool I look back to the promised land of your presence.

Playing the fool I smell your on the dusky powder…

shadowed by only me.

Glancing for your love in the solemn pines and abandoned tundra there is no solace below or from above.

Treading softly, as you have taught, where is the peace that once had been sought?

Is it there are the front door, welcoming, soft and gentle?

Is it there in the moments of life without care?

I walk the woods.

I rove the trail.

Snow…knee deep, moments to myself…

‘did I fail?’

Fail to embrace what you once thought to be grace?

Such a quiet, whimsical, being that has left a memory to trace

This winter funeral leaves me in awe.

This winter funeral only betray’s love and her disgrace.

January Thaw

A winter’s flower.
How do I disgrace thee.
When you provide me with such symmetry.
An all seasons charm.

Winter’s flower.
How could I not seek but always see.
And, though the footpath is slow
to where you are.
The earthen tones splendor like a distant star.
Winter’s flower by Tree Farm Loop…
take a left off Baptist Hill road.
Near where the Shakers grow old.

the Four Freedoms

Sorrow for Now

Freedom minus fear = FAITH

I have seen sorrow being dragged upon the forest bed.

Sorrow and Grief…her best friend.

I drag them barefoot…scrapping fractious feet upon disruptive, chaotic floor.

Both women, put upon by the light snow and distant screams.

With fist in a ball and charity along my lines of pine.

Sorrow comes as a matter of recourse.

And, grief…she grabs hold with a ragged limb.

She allows just enough for my carriage of thought to run…thin.

Sorrow and grief, my friends for now, remember every vacant vow

and…

the terrain, coarse with a mortal’s soul.

Let Me Know

Let me ask you this,

‘how would it be if we kissed…nose to muzzle, muzzle to this?’

With the onslaught of winter wind from the trees would it bring me to inspiration from bend-ed knee.

I clasp upon what you have given me…snowy wool, star-like gaze, wandering that cannot be betrayed.

Two feet to four paws, I have always been in awe.

These stages of pronounced reverence have given to the inspiration that I need.

Mile upon, as far as the crow flies, mile, there has only been deliverence from what we are forced to see.

I could walk with you for a distance of markers, blank and unforgiven, in the wilderness.

How basic? To live, to live, to live, with that which pardons the manner in which we give.

Did I Ever See Her Again

I see my old street…

I see how it shines.

Those days or red roses and proffered wine.

Moments in an adolescent’s grasp that withstand time.

Around the corner,

and up to the gates of Stone park.

She left

chocolate covered fingerprints upon my heart.

She spoke of things I did not understand.

In youth,

I stuck to the matters at hand.

Did I ever see her again?

No.

No, and wishing would not make it so.

Country Affirmations

With moments such like a desolate snowflake, hanging from the sky.

I walk my daily assertions and provoke, why?

The cold and the lucidity encapulates me.

I cannot always get there from here.

Yet, I am still open wide and apathetically, naturally, translucent to what nature offers me.

Traveling left of false roads…lifting a heavy foot, I am not too old.

Too old to bear the fruit of red berry, solo on downtrodden branch.

Further, into unmarked mystery, for bleak seconds, I find my second chance.

Country affirmations leave a stone heart vivid with darkened greens and snow-blind white.

Country proclamations steal my sideways glance.

Not all that is meant to be…

Not all is within sight.

Never the Same Kiss

She touches me in ways I cannot avoid.

It isn’t in the stories…she’s told.

It is not in the wonder-lust or star-dust.

Not in the way she holds my demons near.

And, yet, years have passed…

that kiss never remains the same.

What a taunting challenge laid out before me…

lessons of masked chivalry.

Perhaps, the secret lay in…they loved each other well.

Perhaps, it is simply…she loves me well.

Once Upon a Woman

Didn’t treat you right.

I never did.

But than…

all my good intentions were short lived.

I had wished ’til the ends of the earth and back?

Perhaps, not.

Though, thru a break in the pane…

I would have riddled a charismatic plot.

There were…

no second chances here.

No, to…

two ways

down

a one-way street.

Should have known better back in the day?

Vanity and clarity never find the same bed…

in which to lay.

Laughing Pine

Laughing pine hold no sentiment for the fallen leaves.

If devotion were a winter gust…what would be just for us.

If rambling had been my disdain…no echo in refrain.

Yet, stolen from frozen time,

to lose resentment allots to listening in the dark to discarded rain and threaded foot and her traffic.

Could one become more than what red berry in powdered snow…

be my memories…distant and low?

No matter the distance in a country mile…I am nothing more than faded ilk…

propaganda with a manufactured smile.

River

It’s coming on Christmas
They’re cutting down trees
They’re putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

But it don’t snow here
It stays pretty green
I’m going to make a lot of money
Then I’m going to quit this crazy scene
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
I wish I had a river I could skate away on
I made my baby cry

He tried hard to help me
You know, he put me at ease
And he loved me so naughty
Made me weak in the knees
Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on

I’m so hard to handle
I’m selfish and I’m sad
Now I’ve gone and lost the best baby
That I ever had
I wish I had a river I could skate away on

Oh, I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I made my baby say goodbye

It’s coming on Christmas
They’re cutting down trees
They’re putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
I wish I had a river I could skate away on

On A Back Road

The two most important days in our life:
the day we are born and the day we find out why!

I didn’t know if I would find him

I didn’t know if I cared

I knew for certain…

Pain would greet me there.

Prone on ice

Fallen to antiquity

Lacking in grace.

Tis’ an ache to country in the bones.

Choked up on pity

Suffocated by your misery

A family of tabloids

Yesterday’s yearbook in upon sepia’s thunder.

Not one for paying heed to the road taken.

The pace…

is one small step…

in an embattled recovery.

House of blues

and

country in the soul?

Just a circus of faithless fools

Just a carnival of soundless minds.

…on a back road

…on a back road.

Can’t be if we just are

Forgotten Pleasure

Between everything purposeful

Between the wishes for rain

Lies…a stockpile of liquid pain

Twisted ties of what remains

Blatant

transgressions

Sunken battles

Forgotten possessions

Careless love, who knew

Careless love…

It was never up to you

Careless love….

There is only so much you can do

Imagine a world vacant of stormy weather

Imagine…

had not two worlds met.

For not one of us…

is truly desperate

To wish away the ache

Clamor for forever fair weather

Would only tarry for lovers had known before

Tis, far better to have loved…carelessly

Than to have stood naked, heart in hand…

at a closed door

                                       

this Old House

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.’

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.”

“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.”

the Christmas Bootie

Every year for at least, 20 years, starting in the 70’s…my grandmother would knit Christmas booties for the whole family.

Which leads me to offer up other 70’s Christmas goodies from Xmas past…

The Disco Gown
Jean Nate’ essential oils
Topping the whole outfit off…the Mood Ring
And, no Christmas would be complete without the entertainment!

Some items have stood the test of time. One actually hangs from my dream catcher to this very day!

the Feathered Roach clip

Vagabond Ties

Ashes of particles, light as the air I breathe.

Just a matter of human debris.

How could any of this rationale be anything but our own destiny?

For all we know, dreams that will got away.

And, no amount of substance will make them stay.

Windows we once believed to be clear as day?

Simply fixed particles, for an imaged display.

Basic explanations to love’s effort…that will go about…its own way.

I have tried to reason away the care you give me.

Offered up logical examples for our bliss.

Yet, there always remained a nonsensical skylight’s array to why WE exist.

I am not a poet…but I play one through my words.

Alas, all that I can come up with is

an absolute loving of a vagabond…

still strikes me of being a notion that is absurd.

not So Plain

You see, here, along the northeast…

a mile is forever on a country lane

In the arm’s of nature, Mother’s face, prolongs my existence.

Her silhouette disheveled, fetal and beyond my wandering.

I felt that one step forward and one step back only released my defects.

This lonely, disparaged pond and her trail praises those that are rampant, quiet and egotistically…frail.

So, I come back down (always) a downy lane.

Snowy, horizontally.

Bluster and sustain-ably sane.

Still a history still….not so plain.

Scruff and Stuff

Personally, I think the best way to give your cat a pill is…have your wife, husband, partner…do it!

In all seriousness, I have worked in many animal shelters (and, of course have way too many cats at home) the best way to give your cat a pill is to scruff and stuff. A cat is generally, okay with being scruff-ed. His/Her mother would haul them around by the scruff of the neck…and, the kitten finds it nurturing. Once you have scruff-ed, you stuff the pill to the back of the throat. Less dry effect of a pill stuck in the throat and your pet will appreciate (in the end) not gagging on an antibiotic.

the Cow Pasture Poem by Charles Roberts

I see the harsh, wind-ridden, eastward hill,
By the red cattle pastured, blanched with dew;
The small, mossed hillocks where the clay gets through;
The grey webs woven on milkweed tops at will.
The sparse, pale grasses flicker, and are still.
The empty flats yearn seaward. All the view
Is naked to the horizon’s utmost blue;
And the bleak spaces stir me with strange thrill.

Not in perfection dwells the subtler power
To pierce our mean content, but rather works
Through incompletion, and the need that irks, —
Not in the flower, but effort toward the flower.
When the want stirs, when the soul’s cravings urge,
The strong earth strengthens, and the clean heavens purge.
Sir Charles GD Roberts

the Skin of Frost

There is an act of self preservation in the first snow.

The way it comes, harsh and plentiful.

The way it goes, minus song and repose.

I had begun to think these times were not for me.

Melted moments of yesteryear’s atrocities.

Now I ponder upon granite stone.

Blowing in the wind of unknown.

To never find kindness in the bitter and caressing skin of frost.

Will be just another loss.

Whimsical Obligations

What of these vows we make. Real or imagined. Spoken or, assumed. Promises behind cupped hands.

I still collect…broken things.

My vain attempt at avenging secrets I would rather not keep.

All whimsical obligations.

Random boughs on a trail to somewhere else.

Court ordered family lies.

Often seen in charming disguise.

Ironic, but away from the pledge, I never feared that I would not make it home.

Comfort came with words and song.

I am used to collecting used things.

Marred, scarred, dented.

I built with pride..this broken home.

My brother, my sister,

mainstream.

Outwardly able to live a lie.

Able to forgo…the why.

Still in the darkness of sleeplessness,

their anger cries.

Pine and Oak

I look and lock down these stairs to the catacombs.

I understand as a stumble, there will never be freedom.

The intertwined pine and oak…lamented before me alludes to a place ‘never to be.’

Hatred and swinging leather belts.

Love mixed with skin pelts.

I write shortly of incidents others have felt.

Thus, I donate my life to disrepair.

To tiled and titled adults without a care.

Tell me now,

how polyester made life light?

Why the campfire of want…became hell?

Did Not Treat You Right

Didn’t treat you right.

I never did.

But then…

all my good intentions were short lived.

I had wished ’til the ends of the earth and back?

Perhaps, not.

Though, thru a break in the pane…

I would have riddled a charismatic plot.

There were…

zero second chances here.

No, to…

two ways

down

a one-way street.

Should have known better back in the day?

Vanity and clarity never find the same bed…

in which to lay.

70’s Santa

The turn off route 93 had been slight

This is what I remember of the night.

There had been no threadbare child’s strap to encase my dreams.

There had been no traveling movie…to allow normal to be sane.

I remember those star crusted memories as though, I could achieve, I could achieve, I could achieve.

After coming from nap time with Santa and no delivered good to be had.

Remember, remember, the polka dot, the low fashion, the plaid.

Adorable in strawberry blonde.

Cute with a nose like a knob.

These days I do not allow myself to be host.

Santa, with perception, can now be a ghost.

Dream of Me – Jerry

In the attics of my life, full of cloudy dreams unreal.
Full of tastes no tongue can know, and lights no eyes can see.
When there was no ear to hear, you sang to me.I have spent my life seeking all that’s still unsung.
Bent my ear to hear the tune, and closed my eyes to see.
When there was no strings to play, you played to me.

In the book of love’s own dream, where all the print is blood.
Where all the pages are my days, and all the lights grow old.
When I had no wings to fly, you flew to me, you flew to me.

In the secret space of dreams, where I dreaming lay amazed.
When the secrets all are told, and the petals all unfold.
When there was no dream of mine, you dreamed of me.

_

Jerry Garcia

Existing Outside the Lines

Messy Memories.

Troubles not foreseen.

It will surface as though,

a lifetime were spent conducting our own scenic symphony.

But then again,

who is to say,

that what seems…

are artless creatures of our dreams.

I am the sort to find no difference between a

snowstorm and…

a mystery.

The sisterhood of blocks made in mortar and misery.

The elusive nature of things…

A hallucinogenic with never-ending complications…

Of who I am?

What I see?

And, what it means to just be.

To create, and to confront, one has to be an outcast. MASHA GEESEN

Dining in the Moment

I stood there over open water

It had been beautiful, all at once…then not at all

Freckles of milk weed rustle with my flannel

It had been beautiful, all at once…then not at all

I sat near a Shaker table waiting for New Hampshire autumn to wine and dine

It had been beautiful. all at once…then not at all

Conscientious Observer

I walk a foreboding country lane, as a conscientious observer.

The mystery of souls looming ever so close.

Behind moss capped tree trunks

and…

snuggled beneath peeled birch bark.

A party of three, the dogs and I.

Interpret nothing…only stillness catches our eye.

To capture moments such as these; an attempt to recall a dream.

And, though the harvest is sweet…

to come back daily, my only sense of relief.

Leaves of Brown

To think of it as anything more…would be absurd.

Justified gifts bestowed upon the earth.

Pungent, musky, society, woven into the fabric of our lives.

Tantalizing temples of shades and hues.

A touch of the silky skin.

Wintered petals.

Disgraced leaves.

Simple mid-season delicacies…Nothing more… than it needs to be.

Alone by Maya Angelou

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don’t believe I’m wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can’t use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They’ve got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I’ll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
‘Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Nothing More to Miss

There are moments I cannot touch…out of fear from being.

Dark, gloved hands, reaching out in leather and lace, pulling me from the sanguine times.

Floors that drop without provocation.

Shifting forest that call loud and severe.

And, yet I find, there is no voice.

Puppets and clowns amassed in bad intent.

This are the times that love and loss have lent.

I miss you when there is nothing more to miss.

I fall in love with you, each illness, each sorrow, again and again.

In the seconds that backtrack from past to present and present to future.

You are what love to be.

You are my friend.

Someone’s Someone

You were someone’s-someone, once.
Such as, those many wanting more than just enough.
A young wife given to the vow of love.
Had you not been tangled up in someone else’s blues?
Would I have known you,
the way in which I have imagined you?

Never Straight

I understand my darkness may never go away.

I carry it as a shadow…everyday.

Little is the fluctuation between the fair hair and the red skin.

Yet, there is no difference between the thin.

The thin line between love and hate.

My road is forever rocky…never straight.

My Tomorrow Place

Perhaps, I should count myself lucky to have a tenure riddled with…

‘the wisdom to know the difference.’
My battles were mine to own.
In each and every instance.
I removed my tomorrow place.
And, the everyday…of its own importance.

There were fewer paths to strife…
But still, the walks, holding its hands, are still nearby.
Dear prudence has taught…not all journeys are fair.

The gift of pain is benign.
In these massive woods of recovery,
It is a simple route to getting lost.
A struggle and stumble each day to embellish with forgetfulness.
So often times, an err to my judgment.

No matter, I must still go my own way…If only for today

Lone White Horse

I rap my knuckles upon a closed door.

I hear a voice that seems like broken glass upon barefoot.

I drive pass a white horse with no rider.

I ask…

‘Does it ever end?’ my one and long time friend.

She speaks in a whisper…

‘I am beginning to wonder that myself.’

Skin raw and filled with excess debris.

Fingers bent and calloused.

As one, I ask, ‘do you see me?’

So this is where we lay.

Open to the chaos of black new days.

I could grow older but then maybe not.

I asked, my long time friend…

‘does this ever end?’

Had I Known

Had I known this would have been our last embrace.
Would I have given more than I take.
I summon up that specter steeple.
As well as, that rare smile that graced your face.
Even now,
I ask the hereafter, with quiet reservation,
who does not falter?

Ominous choices of two forks in the road.
‘No, you did all you could.
How were you to know.
She always likened herself to beauty being bold.’

Those were the days of romantic sobriety.
Young love in tarnished hands.
A reckoning of waters,
so still they moved.
I moved.
You moved.

I am perpetually swayed back to that secular summer place…
with the worshipers in the sun’s face.
The only thing I knew to do was offer a way to leave.
Proposing a week’s reprieve.

Seven days.
It moved me.
It moved you.
And,
at the time,

that was the best that we could do.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

A New Favorite! Lebanon!

Oh, Lebanon, life is brief
Don’t sit alone in your constant fear
Open up, I shan’t be like Canada
Oh, Lebanon
Oh, Lebanon, life is brief
Don’t sit alone
In your constant fear

Lebanon…J.S. Ondara

Aching Limbs

Clover still grows during this…the first hard frost.

I have always envied this walk…to clear the air.

Drudgery and all its beauty strewn about in wild fanfare.

The perpetual futility of earth’s aching limbs.

A healthy canvas for the unknowing eye, is all one will see.

Progress and perfection…languishing in antiquity.

Criminal Heart

There are these moments where I cease to exist.

Moments I dare not wish away.

Such like, a slight vulnerability we dare not display.

Though a lover may profess their love on any given day.

My crimes of the heart…

Dark and blistery.

And, lonely the roads I have chosen.

Chosen to stay within the refrain of the sane.

Triumphantly, no matter the luster…

Rear-view glances to all hereafters.

Are mine to define.

No fault moments…

Placed in the attic of my mind.

Deliver Unto the Forest

I do not know where to go to stay strong.

I understood where I always needed to believe.

To the ravished forest, brutal and gentle, dark and light.

Can I ever release this flight?

Quail twinkling upon slightly frozen blades of grass.

Milk weed disposing of fluff, hard and fast.

I do not know where to go to stay steady.

I understood, however, the dug earth, the rampant maple leaf, the need to see and see…

Would deliver me.

Thank You, Jane

Fighting for social justice maybe more important than ever. With children at our borders…in crisis. With Veterans roaming the streets (homeless) of the land they fought to protect. With something as simple as, healthcare for all…a silly debate…

With all this, and socialism shouted from the rooftops of aging, life time politicians, where do we turn?

So many quotes on history and how it repeats. How the United States does not learn from her mistakes. Hatred in every corner of every town…red or blue. Again, it is important to look back to see where we need to grow.

It is well to remind ourselves, from time to time, that “Ethics” is but another word for “righteousness,” that for which many men and women of every generation have hungered and thirsted, and without which life becomes meaningless. Jane Addams

So a little history is what I present!

Addams developed three “ethical principles” for social settlements: “to teach by example, to practice cooperation, and to practice social democracy, that is, egalitarian, or democratic, social relations across class lines.”[46] Thus Hull House offered a comprehensive program of civic, cultural, recreational, and educational activities and attracted admiring visitors from all over the world, including William Lyon Mackenzie King, a graduate student from Harvard University who later became prime minister of Canada. In the 1890s Julia Lathrop, Florence Kelley, and other residents of the house made it a world center of social reform activity. Hull House used the latest methodology (pioneering in statistical mapping) to study overcrowding, truancy, typhoid fever, cocaine, children’s reading, newsboys, infant mortality, and midwifery. Starting with efforts to improve the immediate neighborhood, the Hull House group became involved in city- and statewide campaigns for better housing, improvements in public welfare, stricter child-labor laws, and protection of working women. Addams brought in prominent visitors from around the world, and had close links with leading Chicago intellectuals and philanthropists. In 1912, she helped start the new Progressive Party and supported the presidential campaign of Theodore Roosevelt.

Jane spoke, fought for social injustice. She started with conversations on poverty. And, discussed the bias’d idea that the poor simply did not work hard enough (as many were led to believe.) The poor and down trodden were also victims of the state. The state in which they live; genetics, environment, illness, threat.

Why do we view social reform with such disdain? Why is it such a far fetched idea that…all citizens should be treated equally?

I listened to the (below) listed podcast with baited breath. Wondering why had I not known more about Jane Addams and/or her ‘Boston marriage’ to Mary Rozet Smith?

**The fact of relatively formalized romantic friendships or life partnerships between women predates the term Boston marriage and there is a long record of it in England and other European countries.[1] The term Boston marriage became associated with Henry James‘s The Bostonians (1886), a novel involving a long-term co-habiting relationship between two unmarried women, “new women,” although James himself never used the term. James’ sister Alice lived in such a relationship with Katherine Loring and was among his sources for the novel.[2]

There are many examples of women in “Boston marriage” relationships. In the late 1700s, for example, Anglo-Irish upper-class women Eleanor Butler and Sarah Ponsonby were identified as a couple and nicknamed the Ladies of Llangollen. Elizabeth Mavor suggests that the institution of romantic friendships between women reached a zenith in eighteenth-century England.[1] In the U.S., a prominent example is that of novelist Sarah Orne Jewett and her companion Annie Adams Fields, widow of the editor of The Atlantic Monthly, during the late 1800s.[3]

Why, why, why is not in the best interest of society (centuries ago and/or today) to treat those we live with, eat with, walk amongst, with dignity and respect?