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

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.

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.

Tracing the Formica

Boscawen NH

The Formica traced a trail of ruddy tears…to an unnamed room.

Deep inside the tomb…

my oblique glasses held visions of dull switch blades.

Daggers dancing through the corners of my soul like,

bloody sugar canes sent to alleviate my decay.

Sliding between the ceramic maze…

a hell to be razed.

Alas, the vow,

little do your tiny demons know,

it was written long ago,

upon a wall made of cork…

‘straight jackets cannot subdue the heart.’

the Good Mother

Marion Post Wolcott

There had been placid times when the good mother gave me trust.

Faith held together with duct tape and the watered down glue of stability.

The stroke of my cheek while facing the end of times were infrequent and often malignant.

I often wonder had the sterile touch of veiled angels been too much.

Too much to transfix my childish mind to what was kind.

Had I ever truly had a mother.

A mother to curl into with my twisted body and troubled mind.

With purity dug in deep into blood and tears,had she wanted, needed, another.