Silent Misdeeds

Silent Misdeeds

Silent Misdeeds

Silent MisdeedsSilent MIsdeeds

Which form of abuse is to your liking?

Why?

You say….

The choice never had been yours

to make anyway…

Though it had always been your voice at stake

Just another orgasm faked…

Choices, options, delusions of narcissistic grandeur…

Why not a familiar bent take on beat her down pleasure?

They all say twice more than what they hear

Guardians of hand-me-down fear.

Everyday serving up a family owned tactile recipes

Everyday reminders turned mystery thrillers.

Everyday the salts that eat the pillars.

Shaker Road

shaker road 4

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.’shaker road 1

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.”

shaker road 5

“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.”

Snow white it’s Blue

So snow white it's blue
So snow white it’s blue

Along the route of…

Old is new

Slate to tin roofs.

You can see dusky corn rows

and,

into the heart of tomorrow.

All the while,

snow white sorrow

Pretentious and antiquated and ancient and misspoken.

Glimpses of a past paid for in tokens.

Granite blue and red with sunset morale.

So snow white it's blue
So snow white it’s blue

Deserted fields with one lone buxom cow.

Gingerbread, maple and fire sift the air.

It would seem the newest of England does not care.

A postal box envisioned by primitive design.

Last stop…missing the sign.

Wildlife encounters and other oblique…traveling shows

Mountains upon mountains of nowhere to go.

Snow white would only be fit the beguiled few

“Poetry is what gets lost in translation.”  ― Robert Frost
“Poetry is what gets lost in translation.”
― Robert Frost

A narrow state of mind…nothing new.

Grandpa’s Deere up on wooden blocks.

Too many, too many’s, pawned at the shop.

Looks like Poe’s the raven.

Feels like Frost’s haven.

Fierce farmland, as far as, the vulture flies

Windchill’s torment a native daughter’s third eye.

Styrofoam sounds like dripping mountain dews.

Underneath, snow white so blue.

Piney sap.

So snow white it's blue
So snow white it’s blue

A Mother’s milk and Mother’s mishap.

Skin stretched out over a dimming fall

Stoned in granite over it all.

Scenic one leading to one more.

Agape, another English styled country store.

Clothes lines made up of crippled shaker chairs.

Bumper-ed Harley’s loosing their flare.

So snow white it's blue
So snow white it’s blue

It is a granite state of mind…

Earthen embryo by design…

Hunting Season

hunting-1

It will be clear.

Those trolls listening both far and near.

Indefinitely indebted but still, I cannot go.

Chivalry in a voice.

These demons up on mountains made by moles…

‘Are not your choice.’

Though, the air I breath is not free.

If I walk away now,

I can own my own feet.

Villains and angels…abound.

Holes in the wall.

Furnace on stall.

There is not enough room on the ark for us all.

I will not choose to take what I need and leave the rest.

Cannot adhere to the father knows best.

hunting-2

Cedar Wood Courts, me

Cedar Wood Courts, me

Cedar Wood Courts, Me
Cedar Wood Courts, Me
Cedar Wood Courts, Me
Cedar Wood Courts, Me
Cedar Wood Courts, Me
Cedar Wood Courts, Me

A memory jogged itself free.

It had been Cedar Wood Court…

a family of flashes absconded with the longest day of the year.

You are after all, old Irish, dear.

The hide and seek…whiskey laced

A game of our Father falling from grace.

Cedars lined in a suburban roe

a piece of country amongst

urban down-low.

An isle of make believe

A day trip tuned in to…

indignant baritones housed in Mother’s shoe.

Loaded guns, stolen Winston’s and relapse debris…

Hangin’ from the memories of Cedar trees.

One for you

Two for me.

Walkin’ the dog, climbing the trees…

Cedar Wood court…

Wooded asphalt

Childish, isn’t it?

To want to believe.