to Breathe or not to Breathe

I have written off that which is not known

Crashing into the earth…secrets come with the winds.

Dismissive pine needles of discourse…go, flow, go.

I choke on the ashes of the earth.

Soiled and turned and forgotten…

what is it that leave the belly of the beast that grows, grows and grows?

Perhaps a bitter forested pill which is embedded in plumes of snow.

To breathe or not to breathe.

The swaying maple, birch and alike,

are crying.

And, I sit singing their refrain.

Respite Places

These are respite places.

Or, so we are told.

But in the interim, a simple plotted gesture for wandering souls.

I tell my lover, to make her aware.

She never hesitates to let me be.

She, alone, understands the expelling of, demons, no one else can see.

It is not mystique I seek.

Nor, blind guidance, from sacred places.

It is the silence that can only be found by…

pursuing to understand…

Understand something that will never be…

Never be completely understood.

Yet, the quest stays like a solemn secret stage.

A critiqued, columned, colloquial,

in which peace is at play.

Vanishing in 89

Vanishing back in ’89

Casualties of ’89

A conductor’s timepiece…

doing time

A clockwork of technicolor breakdowns

And, races to the finish smeared with red tape

Cheers of holding on, discoveries that came much too late..

Vanishing in ’89

Family values of a primitive kind

No matter how white the snow may currently be

it has no choice to soil itself down

It is in the deficient nature of the beast

Running down in ’89

With no importance of the finish line

Can a new reality be forged

Can we allow tainted walls closer to

the heart…

Can yesterday beckon a seasoned start

Vanishing and gone… back in ’89

Closer, closer, closer to fine

No matter how secluded those that were dear

No matter how sequestered they appear

Beastly bones are nothing more than a…

Handed down meaningless antique

Vanishing in ’89

I wonder back to the screeching night

and

where to draw the darkest of fine lines

Be chivalrously autonomic

Being intimately private to true bone

Being in internal love, one but not alone

the Queer and the Fine

river-4

These times are lean

for many.

Not for only the queer and fine.

Not for only those of disabled mind.

For all human and…unkind.

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Cannot help but feel a chill in the air.

Cannot help but wonder…

the depth of waters,

free flow.

The river’s edge no longer inviting.

Vacant tables seem

splintered.

Less confiding.

Brighter times misguiding.

The size of things and secret matters left to a court jester and mad hatter.

To fend distant thought,

I watch in admiration,

as my dogs frolic.

Their antics blissfully unaware of the impending need to panic.

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