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

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

 

 

Cracks in the Pavement

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

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

 

 

the Queer and the Fine

river-4

These times are lean

for many.

Not for only the queer and fine.

Not for only those of disabled mind.

For all human and…unkind.

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Cannot help but feel a chill in the air.

Cannot help but wonder…

the depth of waters,

free flow.

The river’s edge no longer inviting.

Vacant tables seem

splintered.

Less confiding.

Brighter times misguiding.

The size of things and secret matters left to a court jester and mad hatter.

To fend distant thought,

I watch in admiration,

as my dogs frolic.

Their antics blissfully unaware of the impending need to panic.

river-7

 

80’s Gay

I could have marched for peace

I could have prayed for community of love

I could have

I could have

I stood out of the closet…that had been the most difficult prize for me

I could have been ‘turned’ around…or so men thought.

Turned in thorny ways…in bed…but not all can be bought.

No matter where I lay, to rest is always challenged.

I lay my politics aside by the nighttime table

I lay my words near my lover’s adornments

Sex is far removed from my inner drive

The field of change…yellow, blue, red, and rainbow…keeps what I offer far and above, alive, alive