Where there had once been fresh grass…now a pristine, glossy, cross.
A well intention granite bench…
bystander, where have you gone?
Does this mean…a universe of pipe dreams…are lost?
I look at my impression…and, a decade of dusty pipe dreams…
You had been there…quietly, in the in-between.
From a stoop made for one, I watch tourist town drudgery, through my own faults.
I have become a by-stander, as well.
Canary yellows with fitted foot. Army greens abided by loose fingered hosters..
Chaos in neon posters.
Ambient lights with traces of human clues.
Sometimes sadness set upon an ocean of deep blues.
Joesph Kildune, Toad Hall
From my everyday stoop.
Thinking of the stranger I never met…but felt I knew.
The understated cross and its forever stone pew.
Where is the by-stander…I never met…but felt I knew.
So horrible at communication.
This I know.
Yet, I found it the safest way to go.
The trappings of loving another…
Nothing but a graying destiny for a languishing mind.
My state of hibernation…
A junkyard car.
Scrap metal missing banner days.
Scratched, dented and out of gas.
Living in the accident of someone last gasp
My only sense of security…
A junkyard dog ambivalent to my past.
On flat tires I take no prisoners.
Propped up on cinder-blocks.
There are no chance for encounters.
Diligently mobile villagers…mulling about.
Going somewhere, everywhere, anywhere…
Other than where they are.
Half smirk smiles.
Eyes downcast, all the while.
I, too, with no sense of the lazy mile.
Daily toil with no sense of style.
I find myself with no pilgrimage to greater thought.
And, all about me, blank stares in faith of…
‘what can and cannot be bought.’
The era of cyberspace, chat-rooms,selfies…Has led into a new and improved form of adult bullying. It is everywhere we go…
First the spoken/written/texted word…and, then maybe a passing thought…
‘Have I taken the time to walk in another’s shoes!
“We are as forlorn as children lost in the wood. When you stand in front of me and look at me, what do you know of the griefs that are in me and what do I know of yours? And if I were to cast myself down before you and tell you, what more would you know about me that you know about Hell when someone tells you it is hot and dreadful?”
Like those who have gone before.
Little time for haste.
White noise everywhere.
A traveling companion for despair.
What of the place that heaven indicates?
For those who hesitate.
thanking its visitors for listening.
Fabled messages on hold.
Sounds of lines going dead.