not So Plain

You see, here, along the northeast…

a mile is forever on a country lane

In the arm’s of nature, Mother’s face, prolongs my existence.

Her silhouette disheveled, fetal and beyond my wandering.

I felt that one step forward and one step back only released my defects.

This lonely, disparaged pond and her trail praises those that are rampant, quiet and egotistically…frail.

So, I come back down (always) a downy lane.

Snowy, horizontally.

Bluster and sustain-ably sane.

Still a history still….not so plain.

A Truthful North

Winter is clattering at the back door.

Long worrisome hours of night falling on the skin.

Yet,

hold still.

Love is not lost.

Up on geriatric pallets.

Made of used nails and scraps of tin.

The world we know,

inhabited with dark necessities.

A truthful love.

A truthful north.

Knows no pity.

As Time Grows Old

I have wept for some doors that have been shut.

For the remembrance of circling crows, the slightly ajar iron gates that house the long ago, dead.

For the remembrance of four legged siblings…true to themselves and unabashed. I relive their memory…everyday.

Oh, the wonder years, living among loose chickens and lazy llamas.

The dead end dirty and dusky roads that had lay before me.

Those lanes with promise of green, glistering, fields.

I have wept for the Shakers, the dance, the waves of neighbors passing, as time grows old.

The Weight of Night

The weight of desperation to leave…an elephant’s foot.

A heft of which… a granite wall…immortal, lifeless.

Little runaway, I tried, I tried.

Ravaged by midday hours…late twilight had been my hour.

I tumble as a result of…my own fall.imageedit_4_4797812923

Darting, dodging, I could only take the route practiced and untamed.

Stuffed animals in the trees…dangling echos…all about.

Deep in a true vault of pine and birch…both shedding onto my perch.

I tumbled…as a result of my own fall.

 

Canterbury Stones

I cannot not carry such stoned, monumental devices with me.
And, believe they will avert the problems that breathe my air.

Thin line.

Town line.

Country store.

It is all the same.

I carry your tomb on my back.

And, provincial problems remain.

 

Dredging the dirt from my soul.

I find nothing is leftover but Christmas coal.

 

Still I shoulder your epitaph filled with Canterbury tales.

Where it is taught,

‘God’s only son…prevails.’

If only I understood what it is, you wanted me to stand for.

I could sustain your words…more easily.