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.


Deadpan Beauty

If I had taken my blinders off.

What would I see?

Everything that others have assumed to be?

The aberration is dim.

Not yet completely out of sight.

Gleam to a dull knife.

So this is what happens when you can no longer afford disillusionment?

Potted and plotted on the earth’s dance room floor.

Within such grounds,

magnetic beauty had not been the cure.

Covens where fashionable blindfolds are of use…no more.

Further proof, ‘you cannot take allure with you…when you go.

Just cold sores…grounded…above and below.

Sullied by Contentment


Servitude is not the calling.

To ask…

would be to no avail.

The pernicious pig,

the muddied mare,

the calamitous cow.

Free of strings.

And, monetary weights.

Out to pasture by virtue of enlightenment.

Green, gold…

Only sullied by contentment.