Drained of Your City Ways

Dark the wood aching for sun

So many conversations we have had

Derelicts of the times, both good and bad

You and I, cloaked in a nasty game of hide and seek

In this, warring courtyard, curves and cushions of fodder

In this, crumbled down streets, forks and flexure and fixtures

I bend to breathe

Hollow becomes my rasp

Sharp is my bath water

Obstructed is my throat…

I quarrel with the words I say

Naked and ravenous, I take to the sodden road

drained of your city ways

the Camera Man

Made when the east knew the west…a Voigtländer…

leather-bound, brownie brown.

A gift, an offering to an auspicious, stranger’s eyes.

He had been my Camera Man who disguised aperture with millimeter umbrage and bleached palette in hand.

Fervent in tethering a child’s focus.

falling roof

My present day…

dark rooms notwithstanding…remain.

Atonement’s of vignettes…bland with impressions.

The Camera Man…close up and personable as, kin.

That is when edges infinity…began.

No use in seeing the scenery differently today.

Visions are me

and

I am they.

There is an alcove to what they may to say.

In the dark room…where the Camera Man lives and plays.

Holiday Hill

Pulling off onto Holiday Hill…

Looking for sophistication…still.

What to find without pills for the mind?

Bald mountains with white caps.

Shuttered Mom and Pop motels afraid of winter’s snow.

Deadpan trail cops, uncertain with authority.

Cabins for the fancy people.

Camps for the basics.

Time flies by on the tails of…risk-taking fowl.

Oh, memory be kind.

Now that I give myself away.

February in the Spring

 

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Spring day in February

Hurt, ache, dispersed…and, now whisked away for just one day.

A particular release that no written word can negate.

The aroma of hope absorbed in cedar turns from scent to sound.

Magic in enjoying languid moments…

relishing in standing still with no chill, no longer a myth.

There is music in loving winter when it decides to go.

 

In the dark months, I attempt to realize not ‘everything is in my mind.’

In the light of now…when wind turns to breeze, my feet dare not touch the ground.

A fleeting thought as the sun goes down,

‘when the weather changes…never be the last to know.’

Not the Good Word

I ask, ‘what good is a word…wrapped in barbwire?

It is expression squeezed dry of color.

Cross-words lacking landscape…deprivation in an isolated world.

An imperfect storm in which memory is unfurled.imageedit_6_2229196388

All this language bantered about with the hue of integrity bleeding out.

When will childhood become a Polaroid from the past?

Words, words, words, ugly…looking to get further down the road.

Not knowing where they were first planted.

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