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.”

Lights at the end of the Tunnel

I wonder if you had been frightened staring down the barrel of a dark tunnel

Now and again, I sneak a peak to where you have gone

I grance and wonder

had the bleak scope made an impact

Did you understand where you stood

had those faint and painful smiles been a matter of what we have always done?

Lying there with your god and your rosaries had there been relief or repentence?

Tunnels have a way of squeezing out the memories

Memories, so long over looked.

In the end of your travels could you stop worrying about that which has not happened yet?

I thought like you…I had been raised to

Not once did the light at the end of the tunnel open up to anything new

Glancing up and around, and threw, as you did, could there ever be all that you wanted to do

These Were the Days

these were the days

a walk through the park to find school

where you did not look like me and that was cool

when a cross is what you wore

how being poor meant you want…needed…more

hatred was a myth and true love was not a choice of sides

living in a rural community came with a deep sense of pride

Nixon had been a joke

our leaders were encourage to enhance hope

these were the days where my peers had a right to be wrong

when constriction left quickly but humbly asked to belong

all eyes were open to all colors

there were three channels and nothing on

these were the days when information did not make me cry

where believing had not left me wondering a collective why

when violence had not been given a side

No photo description available.

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…