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

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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.

 

Adrift in His Visions

I knew I had the opportunity to be like him…willing to sink others so I could swim

When adrift in the vision would become static and differed

There stood feelings of shaken roots and birch trees twisted and stirred

Soon all became dusted with rust and more and more obscured

Being safe among and within four walls left me hanging on ragged noose

complicit but loose

Beating back indifference by way of my own blood

Compiling foundations of steady mistrust on top of ‘what is love’

I know I am different from him

I have walked the needled path daily with one leg falling behind

Alert to the triggers of his vanity weaving in and out of my mind

Why go to the woods?

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms…Henry David Thoreau

Why do I go to the woods? The nature of things will always understand me better than I know myself.

Dungeons and Darkness

Give me a reason why

Dungeons and darkness still survivie

It is a formidible enemy that stays

But

unable, under weakened feet, he stays..

after all, feelings…are just another means of retreat

Crowds and crowds have forever gathered ’round…they know what life is…living in that which is loud

Who among us hasn’t lived above the word ‘proud?’

Neglect and punishment…childhood words for stay on your side

Just bluster to dishearten what it is to survive

Do You Hear…What I Hear

I hear the angels of the golden age sing

I hear it and I know you do too

Raven-ly delicate Blue Jays, clear and virginal, as they sing

Morning Doves in the clasp of joy

Gray squirrels cattle calling for autumn’s deliverance

This is a bell that tolls for only me

and…

This is the bell that rings for those unlike me

This is a clamour from the untamed

This is where the earth will remain

Know One to Preach

My vacant village…more vacant than before

Tattered, elicit affairs lay at St. Gabriel’s altar

All the residents have wrapped up testaments into a crumpled yellowed newspaper, and gone home

Golden saviors, cloaked and free of fear, are unabated…akin to flea market trinkets…nothing but grab bags of unidentified…barren bones

Diamond crusted good Samaritans with chips on their robes seem to walk the same streets as forgotten servants. Each and everyone…lost from their thrones.

Not one left to preach

Know one to preach

No one left to dictate the streets that are lone.

Unbought and Unbossed

“If they don't give you a seat at the table, bring a folding chair.”
― Shirley Chisholm

The most tragic error into which older people can fall is one that is common among educators and politicians. It is to use youth as scapegoats for the sins of their elders. Is the nation wasting its young men and its honor in an unjust war? Never mind — direct your frustration at the long-haired young people who are shouting in the streets that the war must end. Curse them as hippies and immoral, dirty fanatics; after all, we older Americans could not have been wrong about anything important, because our hearts are all in the right place and God is always on our side, so anyone who opposes us must be insane, and probably in the pay of the godless Communists. Youth is in the process of being classed with the dark- skinned minorities as the object of popular scorn and hatred. It is as if Americans have to have a “nigger,” a target for its hidden frustrations and guilt. Without someone to blame, like the Communists abroad and the young and black at home, middle America would be forced to consider whether all the problems of our time were in any way its own fault. That is the one thing it could never stand to do. Hence, it finds scapegoats. Few adults, I am afraid, will ever break free of the crippling attitudes that have been programmed into their personalities – racism, self-righteousness, lack of concern for the losers of the world, and an excessive regard for property. One reason, as I have noted, is that they do not know they are like this, and that they proclaim ideals that are the reverse of many of their actions. Such hypocrisy, even if it is unconscious, is the real barrier between them and their children.

https://art19.com/shows/the-history-chicks/episodes/ba40eda9-4e2c-48da-8d07-38ae2f6362e4

Illness

How is it going to be?

night stalking civility

I cannot comprehend with withered soul, the complacency

Bedraggled within my calloused feet, a fork in the road…no one seems to see

The hallway that looms between the walls of a mind…

has stopped time

As I witness the barren, stone ground, road ahead…

blistered and hollow

On and on and on, we, I shall go

Searching in the wilderness of a soul

I only wish to lay my bitterness in a earthen bed

Tree at my Window – R. Frost

Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.

Vague dream head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
Not all your light tongues talking aloud
Could be profound.

But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
And if you have seen me when I slept,
You have seen me when I was taken and swept
And all but lost.

That day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.

thoughts from a madwoman

an impetus of my thoughts…
ties like a stolen heart hanging on a single limb
waving in the distance, those I have lost…those I have yet to meet
my intimacy has stretched one lone minute into days
a simple glance to my love has turned like a leaf in the fall
our infinity is willful…through the light and the dark

time has captured the ease in which love will always bleed

looking, mortality in the eye…like a discarded pod to a seed

Dusk Flirts

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It is late at night.

Perhaps, just ’round midnight.

Dusk flirts with a lit lamppost.

I place my hand gently in the curve of your hip.

And, soon…

What strange monsters that lurk.

In the mania of the mind.

Fade to darkness in the beauty of your design.

Bong Condom?

Akin to my Native American Heritage, I welcomed our new neighbors with an offering of the ‘peace pipe.’

I had wandered overly (slightly high)…wishing to get even higher with my new found friends. So with grace I packed my favorite bong and took flight. It is, of course, a right of passage for many pot smoker’s to offer up their common ground with one another.

Without a care in the world we passed the bong. They thanked me for my generosity. Thus, in exchange, another pipe was pulled out (much prettier than my bong) and again, we took in a round of tokes.

##side note: Have you ever notice how pot smokers compare their devices? Kind of like keeping up with the Jones’s…hippie style.

After several hours of not being able to end a thought or remember what we were talking about…I went home.

Yet, when back home…I worried about hygiene. ‘Oh fuck I just shared a bong and did it within 6 feet!

Naturally, the morning after…I researched pot etiquette during the pandemic.

And, the following is what I discovered…

Bong Condoms!

I don’t know if I would have the energy to wrap my bong in a condom! Matter of fact, I think I’d be too lazy…after a toke or two…to switch my condoms out.

I did, however, discover a wonderful news article on the Do’s and Dont’s of getting high during the pandemic.

Start do-it-yourself projects, as well as enjoy some stoner entertainment to improve your mood.

DIY cannabis

Here are 5 reasons why it’s the perfect time to start growing cannabis.  Here’s how to germinate seeds and start an indoor garden.

Also, whip up some cannabutter to turn smokeables into edibles.

Stoner entertainment for self-isolation

You’re inside, you’re bored, we get it. Try these on for size:

I wonder if they put a condom on that bad boy?

the Grove…still

the Grove...still
the Grove…still

The Grove…still

The grove with petal pushers

and

grassy Capri

ancient elms

and

misguided spruce trees.

The grove with Renoir daffodils

and

lazy storms up over the hill

The grove…

a thoroughfare through nature’s window sill.

Learning cricket still,

being cricket still.

the Grove...still
the Grove…still

the Grove...still
the Grove…still

Ah Sunflower by William Blake

Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the Sun:
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the travellers journey is done. 

Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow: 
Arise from their graves and aspire, 
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.

In the Neighborhood

Leaves of rust dot an aggressive sky

The blacktop and yellow lines that divide us…are covered with dew

Such as a, cold sweat from a fever that will not break

Friends to the right teaching from a treacherous dream

Tired and worn neighbors to the left…correspond to the dead

Across the great dissect…acquaintances no longer fed

With watchful eye, I sit on a weathered deck pondering…’where has my neighborhood gone?’

A mortgaged life singing her swan song

Original sin and I…obeying the wrong

Thoughts in a Box

 

imageedit_34_3532234221

I take the devil out of its box.

To make a big stand.

Yet,

the ancients disregard the plan.

They do not hold me aloft.

Or,

hold me beneath.

I am only stones and bones.

A misguided sage song.

The ancients know…

I can only bequeath one.

And, one lust only.

Decadence for thoughts that are forever lonely.imageedit_37_3807268273

 

 

Black Cat Rules

Black Cat

by Rainer Maria Rilke

A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place
your sight can knock on, echoing; but here
within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze
will be absorbed and utterly disappear:

just as a raving madman, when nothing else
can ease him, charges into his dark night
howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels
the rage being taken in and pacified.

She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen
into her, so that, like an audience,
she can look them over, menacing and sullen,
and curl to sleep with them. But all at once

as if awakened, she turns her face to yours;
and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny,
inside the golden amber of her eyeballs
suspended, like a prehistoric fly.

an Invitation

Crickets and alike hear my random thoughts

Unmasked in the under brush…there is no need for abandonement…

Just a lyrical understanding of loss

Salamander, squirrel, evergreen and barren oak know of cost

Reverberation from forgotten caves

Divots into the forest of rain

Landscape reminders…we are not the same

I am only invited to release the shame

Neglectful Owner

These trials of worthiness,

remarkable or not…

are plain as day…nonetheless.

If it were a drug the shaking less intense.

Feelings like a neglectful owner to common sense.

Normally a good runaway…would be

in order.

Yet, the sneakers have gone since I put the blotter away.

Flashbacks of embryos on the floor.

With hatred always wanting more.

Pictures of sepia images bought with the beat of a leather strap.

All and none of the above, correct answers.

With the questions being all wrong…

a fifty year old swan song.

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.

Memories of My Brother

I do not want to think of him.

Though…I do.

The brother I once knew.

Born an old man.

He had been more than my father could stand.

His persona…

Larger than a vat of well stirred anger.

Hope never surrounded him.

Love, seemed a danger.

Even now,

alive…but his breathing unwell.

I think of him in a past tense.

Like a folklore I should tell.

On a mid summer’s day.

Rare, relinquished thoughts.

Broken windows.

Shattered buildings.

Five second memories of my brother.

An abandoned lot that time forgot.

imageedit_189_5389366883

 

Moo

The Cow in Apple Time by Robert Frost

Something inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.
Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit,
She scorns a pasture withering to the root.
She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten.
The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.
She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.
She bellows on a knoll against the sky.
Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.  

Bring Back Naked Gardening!

Posted on  by randomwordbyruth

  

Get ready for the Annual World Naked Gardening Day (WNGD)! People across the globe are encouraged, on the first Saturday of May, to tend their portion of the world’s garden unclothed as nature intended.

Gardening has a timeless quality, and anyone can do it: young and old, singles or groups, the fit and infirm, urban and rural. An elderly lady in a Manhattan apartment can plant new annuals in her window box. Families can rake leaves in their back yard. Freehikers can pull invasive weeds along their favorite stretch of trail. More daring groups can make rapid clothes-free sorties into public parks to do community-friendly stealth cleanups.

Why garden naked? First of all, it’s fun! Second only to swimming, gardening is at the top of the list of family-friendly activities people are most ready to consider doing nude. Moreover, our culture needs to move toward a healthy sense of both body acceptance and our relation to the natural environment. Gardening naked is not only a simple joy, it reminds us–even if only for those few sunkissed minutes–that we can be honest with who we are as humans and as part of this planet.

https://twitter.com/hashtag/wngd ##WNGD Share your Experience

I have already found some ‘fault’ with this holiday. As many of us are situated in such places that do not provide ‘shelter from the storm’…per-say!

For instance,

-severe allergy to poison ivy

-thorny bushes that dot the New Hampshire landscape

-Irish skin exposed to elements such as,

-humidity the same level as the temperature

-encounters with Sasquatch

-deer ticks

-New Hampshire’s personal…on steroids, mosquito

Then there are also…physical obstacles…

-bladder control problems

-where to hang the mp3 player

-where to place the All Eyes are on You…phone

-dog shit!

and…

Most importantly,

‘Why am I looking at that?’

Typhoid Mary, Now and Then

Have Karen’s and Ken’s been around long?

Well, yes, Karen’s have been around for centuries!

I understand that some in America do not think of history as important. After all… 2020 has become far more advanced than 100 years ago.

Did you say, asymptomatic? Is this new? Ignoring science? That never happens! Immigrant’s, person’s of color: black, brown, red… do matter. Oh wait! What about gay men being housed on an island (just a rumored suggestion!)

These, poor me, dramatically-soap opera, Karen, Ken, Brad and their reluctance to not use history as a, tool for the future, have lingered around in the bias shadows…since…ignorance has been a word.

This article is more than 3 months old
Fear, bigotry and misinformation – this reminds me of the 1980s Aids pandemic
This article is more than 3 months old
Edmund White
s http://This article is more than 3 months old Fear, bigotry and misinformation – this reminds me of the 1980s Aids pandemic This article is more than 3 months old Edmund White I saw the damage Aids did to the gay community, and I live with it myself. Now, at 80, I worry I won’t survive coronavirus

Oh! I forgot! Lest we forget what we did/do to those with mental health issues!

Social Alienation/Goya

These Are the Times

There are many days; dreary, dark, and unsupported by my truth. Many moments as a, woman, an artist, a overly thoughtful person, where I judge myself way too harshly.

‘Wherever I go, however…there I am.’

In these times of uncertainty. Uncertainty in the world that drips over the edges and becomes…my personal space.

These are the times, long as they may be, I must remind myself of the following:

Summer Music by May Sarton

Summer is all a green air—
From the brilliant lawn, sopranos
Through murmuring hedges
Accompanied by some poplars;
In fields of wheat, surprises;
Through faraway pastures, flows
To the horizon’s blues
In slow decrescendos.

Summer is all a green sound—
Rippling in the foreground
To that soft applause,
The foam of Queen Anne’s lace.
Green, green in the ear
Is all we care to hear—
Until a field suddenly flashes
The singing with so sharp
A yellow that it crashes
Loud cymbals in the ear,
Minor has turned to major
As summer, lulling and so mild,
Goes golden-buttercup-wild.

I Drink You In

I drink you in, as though, there be no end.

I ache your ailing spirit, as though, it were mine.

If I were set upon a lost ocean…

Whatever you found to be amiss…I would find.

Lover, it hurts so, when your world…

Resigns to the being of…unkind.

us-2

Tomorrow will come and take us away.

Import us to the blues.

Retrieving each soul, as though we were never one.

In the deepest of my smallest conviction…

With all of infinity…

I will understand…

We have only just begun!

Peace Dog

“Dogs are our link to paradise. They don’t know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring–it was peace.” – Milan Kundera

Head in the Clouds

head in the clouds

“Always best to keep the head in the clouds…

and feet planted firmly on the ground.

That way the best of both world are at your fingertips!”

Blue-green music-pink-and-blue-ii

“One day a hummingbird flew in–
It fluttered against the window til I got it down where I could reach it with an open umbrella–
–When I had it in my hand it was so small I couldn’t believe I had it–but I could feel the intense life–so intense and so tiny–
…You were like the humming bird to me…
And I am rather inclined to feel that you and I know the best part of one another without spending much time together–
–It is not that I fear the knowing–
It is that I am at this moment willing to let you be what you are to me–it is beautiful and pure and very intensely alive.”

-Georgia O’Keeffe

Big Brown Dog, and a Roadside Poet

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Everyone deserves to be a poet…for one day.

A knock off…laureate on display.

Fortunate, daughter, it is your day.

I found the river not lost but…wandering.

The water so clamorous,

that pockets of everyday living…can flow, in and around you.

Decisions that can be left for another day.

Battles, won or lost, whether you go or stay.

Coarse, they are, these headstones or markers, along the way.

The big brown dog always aware of impending calamity.

Roots boulder deep…

So much so, they could arise the dead from their sleep.

“It must be not enough to be the voice of someone else’s reason.

It must be enough to be our own reason.”

But these are dreams we dream…when we have no other dreams left.

Blue collar workers of rhyme, denizens of word theft.

Course, there are dried, deadlock, beds…

and, one wonders who else has come before to steal time?

But I have just got my broken feet back on the ground.

And, am not prepared to settle down.

The big brown dog…she does not care.

Taking it as it comes.

Life…that is.

More or less, as long as, there is a roadside rest.

And, the occasional, foot bridge requiring an athlete’s best.

So, it is myself, and the big brown dog…with big brown eyes…

Myself, mostly upright.

She, in a habitat of brown leaves.

Down by a random stream.

Dreaming a roadside poet’s dream.

 

No Ugliness In the Dark

There is no ugliness in the dark, it now soothes my soul.

It is pruned and hidden behind all that I know.

A midnight hour…now, has become as slow and methodical, as a turtle in spring time.

Quiet, watchful and meandering.

Where there had once been discomfort from the levels of kindness…

I offer myself, whatever will be…will be.

Where had once been fear and disenchantment…

an ease.

No more hardship.

I am hidden and appointed…no longer is there someone else’s misery.

Cracks in the Pavement

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Way up here, a universe between the…

here and now.

There is still a chill in understanding the undertaking.

A personal best, per say,

in choices for the forsaking.

These are but cracks in the pavement, earthy and routine.

Times when the public handicap is less sublime…

Perhaps, to some, more obscene.

My sister does not understand…

or, better yet, has not taken the chance to know.

Perchance, had she ever glanced at the forever…shaking of my  hands.

Or, the new trend of hypocrisy across the North land.

She would see same blood…different set of plans.

As a youth, frozen in a tundra of moral mediocrity..

Envy, infinitely, encompassed me.

Heeled, I walked with my sister’s feet.

Begging my veiled thoughts to…retreat.

The truest wish I had ever spoke…

‘let those after me…feel less remote.’

Alas, the ‘stoned’ split tongue undertaker has come…

Blowing winds pass my attempts at changing the tides.

My sister…still, obtuse to our different rides.

In anguish, as I have done before,

I point to the cattle prodded like guileless clowns at the door.

Yet, the hand of many prop her to her fence.

And, stage sister against…

a forest to which she can never be lent.

Rural, I am.

Nonetheless, not so different from others…of big talk…small lands.

My heart, just the same… larger than life.

Urging me, these choices you’ve made cannot be broken by gun or by knife.

hallowed 6

 

 

Grasping at Straws

Loud enough to be heard when a pin drops.

Tangled moments of clarity.

Ancient strife and last century poets…

Have not held the key.

I, too, have been known to grasp at straws.

That I do not hold.

As I wheeze through another breath.

And, hobble towards indecision.

I am distracted by a presence of the unknown.

Half stacked cords of rotted wood.

Raspberry bushes…too ripe to pick.

Fanning ferns, chaotic root and birch…

Dancing in and out of the shadows of life.

Then a remembrance…

A poet’s trail is ancient strife.