Angry tears rain upon abandon houses.
It is here comfort feels at home…most.
Ghastly stairwells replace stubbed toes.
Eerie bulkheads surrounded with infected weeds replaced by the belt and the knee.
Heroic crosses dressed in blood replaced by screams louder than nothingness.
What is not replaced…
The uneven sunrises and the awkward sunsets.
Cannot you see,
‘they are fractured just like me.’
Fragments and figments of is left…
these are the buildings…
these are the visions…
that understand me best.
“If winter calls should I answer?” mother had asked.
Her words such as peeled back bark.
Earthy and sublime, a slow pouring wine.
The volume of her sentences were never said…in moderation.
It is four in the morning and I am awoken to hanging on.
What ground had just been broken?
How many more sleepless black and white moments, sullen and justified, would this go on?
Ashen, Irish, ashes all that was left in the morning.
When memories woke up.
My home…with no family tree
no roots to secure fresh fruit
no need to touch the log cabin frame
no sense in digging up roots with already stained hands
no value to picking forbidden fruit with yellowed nails
After all these years, the crows still circle above.
No mention of love.
“Hey, mama, it’s me!”
Said, “you better wait child!
Said, “you’ve been a long time running!”
“Hey, mama, answer me!”
“Baby boy, you better sit down…Can’t listen when the sun’s out! My only son this will be so hard to hear.”
“C’mon mama, what do you mean?”
I know you’ve been knocked down.
I know it ain’t been easy.
Nothing ever good really is.
Why you gotta wait so long?
But she said son,
“Let me reason with you. You think you carry such a weight?
I know I never beat you boy. Better start acting like this here’s…a race.”
“You ain’t gone far enough to say, at least I tried.
You ain’t worked hard enough to say, well I’ve done mine.
You ain’t run far enough to say, my legs have failed.
You ain’t worked hard enough. You ain’t run far enough to say…’it ain’t gonna get any better.”
“You picked a bad time
You picked a bad time to listen to me!”
What had been wrong with me?
Granite stone with names from different turns.
Could he have been just a tabloid mystery?
So many questions…under a rustic line of pine trees.
Roads winding in and around crevices amassed from weather, oh so turbulent.
Had the journey into deep, gathering country been wrong.
Could he have been just a teacher…giving lessons in distaste.
Offering long, forbidding ways in which love can go to waste.
Year upon rural year…the distance fought never remains.
Climate change offered no manner in which to stay the same.