What happens when we cannot levitate any longer.
For when that disability begins,
it is our past playing hide and seek.
What happens when our memories of seesaw’s and mechanical pony’s come crashing down,
in an around our bare, to all, feet.
Only to be relinquished by a present we will not believe.
≤≥
How soon to the realization that we are all approaching something…
If not,
we are leaving it behind.
There are eccentricities about time that many… will never get.
There is a mortal need to have it all around.
Thou, it is injured and too tightly wound.
It may surface that there are brisk critics regaled for being too passionately black.
And, those willing to make the ‘devil’s pact.’
As followed, before, the ache arrived, minutes filled the air.
As original as, the snowflakes in which we place our grateful cares.
Mind over the matters of time.
The pain of neutral.
No joy from fast forward or rewind.
For myself, revelations, on a dusky December day,
That, I too, conceded,
from the comfort of living in the in between.
There had been a frozen dust to the air.
It covered my tracks…
Or, considerate me…
I found myself not lost…for I never looked back.
Careless Shadows
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
It is a granite state of mind…
Earthen embryo by design…
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