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

 

 

the Blade or the Brake

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Pristine and crisp…like a second chance to catch a breath.

Traveling to far-flung acres looking for the new growth of more.

Dank darkness combined with black coffee before propping open… of the barn door.

 

As a young farm hand, I had chance to renew the fields.

Scrubbing for sod.

Boasting with migrant workers during a noon time meal.

 

In the innocence, a lifetime discovery…

tractors run but they also roll.

Choices made were all in timing the blade or the brake.

How little to know…a dry season would be all the calamity it takes.

Frost and Flannel

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The clapping hollow and harrowed noise of hiking boot on a hardwood floor

The mystery surrounding a Dixie cup of corn liquor.

The lanky old man

The slamming of the improperly fit…screen door.

After all hadn’t it been her way to travel down paths unknown

Granite faces

Fallen ways of cobblestone.

So what to make of a diminished thing

Long after the spring.

So what to make of a young writer’s dilemma.

My handler submerged in her own poetic plight.

Filled with daydreams

A self-imposed creator’s right.

Year after year

I have gone to what I know to be best.

Frost farms

a meandering Raven’s charm.

Indeed my only play had been what I found.

Chasing critiques that made little sound

Bending the white off the birch

Reflecting the dog’s menace to the earth.

Those days I ran on the ray’s of innocence

as though, sunlight glow no more.

A purposeful forgotten promise

fireside with my father at the cabin door.

So, again the basking of clove and lavender has begun

Will the ache ever be done.

Yes, I took a road less traveled

And, I shall not forget all I have chance to marvel.

the Northern Wallflower

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The day after yesterday…

the lilacs were gone.

Then the iris.

One by one, they were, also,  all departed.

All, but the northern wallflowers…that is.

Never do the gods account for the ever so green…up on the ridge.

This is where the grassy knolls have always replenished me.

I come here daily to see what it is you see.

No, you are not just a simple plot of trees.

What has been, seen daily, yearly, at your limbs hand?

The growth so measurable…

Yet, your roots have begun a different kind of land.

 ∞

In deepest sincerity,

my strength has atrophied.

But my vigor…as I watch your vastness…

I admit…is thought of differently.

In freshened mind, as you have portrayed…

I cannot walk this walk…only to return to my cave.

Though in beckoning winds I may…become altered.

A small resolution should not be what I am after.

 ∞

Came fall, ever green will turn to rust.

Came winter, your poignancy will become a changeling, yet, robust.

Sheltering all who follow you.

Giving the time to renew.

 

 

 

 

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