Holiday Hill

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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.

Just Another Picture

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Had the perception been just a habit…

Would all my images just been another picture?

Am I an open container in a small town?

Unpacking packages of sight…some worn…some run down.

There is no sentence that can free me from the scene.

A sense of urgency…concealed by cemented intimacy.

Almost as though, I had arrived at just the right time.

imageedit_9_8647321294My small town photographed in the mind.

Flea Market Snowshoe

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Flea Market snowshoes had been my last hope.  And, I knew well enough, falling up would be easier to achieve than down.

Both being a natural achievement that comes with little sound.

Still!  There had been an organic urge.

The kind set within a pit.  Lit up.  Flamed and encouraged.

All of the elements wound itself…in a curiosity, I would not purge.

I began to walk upon frozen picnic tables, brutish mountain waters.

And, varying unearthly objects of a similar kind.

Nothing more than…raw, risky behavior by design.

 

Beneath the Bridge

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Shallow is the heartbeat that rages a distended river.

Darkened and hearkened, by space and time.

A silence to the mossy flow.

And,  weathered innocence the only true forgiver.

Amidst the cool watery breath.

Laps of a sauntering solitude…

Await a crested wake.

Pockets of  hushed calm within the raging river.

Weathered innocence the only true forgiver.