Thoughts in a Box

 

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I take the devil out of its box.

To make a big stand.

Yet,

the ancients disregard the plan.

They do not hold me aloft.

Or,

hold me beneath.

I am only stones and bones.

A misguided sage song.

The ancients know…

I can only bequeath one.

And, one lust only.

Decadence for thoughts that are forever lonely.imageedit_37_3807268273

 

 

Black Cat Rules

Black Cat

by Rainer Maria Rilke

A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place
your sight can knock on, echoing; but here
within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze
will be absorbed and utterly disappear:

just as a raving madman, when nothing else
can ease him, charges into his dark night
howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels
the rage being taken in and pacified.

She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen
into her, so that, like an audience,
she can look them over, menacing and sullen,
and curl to sleep with them. But all at once

as if awakened, she turns her face to yours;
and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny,
inside the golden amber of her eyeballs
suspended, like a prehistoric fly.

an Invitation

Crickets and alike hear my random thoughts

Unmasked in the under brush…there is no need for abandonement…

Just a lyrical understanding of loss

Salamander, squirrel, evergreen and barren oak know of cost

Reverberation from forgotten caves

Divots into the forest of rain

Landscape reminders…we are not the same

I am only invited to release the shame

the Good in Good-bye

How far down can I be?

From the life that swallowed me.

Wandering down the same faded lanes.

Looking for mythical messages…

In this, the most old-fashioned of New Hampshire towns.

Where antiquated becomes motionless.

Laying about without a sound!

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I would put a name to the provocation.

But am not quite sure how.

It is an unequivocal ride.

That will not end.

Not end until a name is pressed in stone.

Until then…

It is the longest of journey’s home.

 

 

Frivolous Green

Without doubts…

A worker among thieves.

Fanning out among the glamour trees.

To behold the fern.

Is to be exact.

Feeling its fingers…

Nimble in the in between.

Braiding the sun.

assaying in and out of life.

Ever…So green.

As if, fulfilling the gaps of a ponderous dream.

 

I cannot say why I find the fern so fascinating.

It seems miraculous.

Always kneeling, praying, waiting.