On A Back Road

The two most important days in our life:
the day we are born and the day we find out why!

I didn’t know if I would find him

I didn’t know if I cared

I knew for certain…

Pain would greet me there.

Prone on ice

Fallen to antiquity

Lacking in grace.

Tis’ an ache to country in the bones.

Choked up on pity

Suffocated by your misery

A family of tabloids

Yesterday’s yearbook in upon sepia’s thunder.

Not one for paying heed to the road taken.

The pace…

is one small step…

in an embattled recovery.

House of blues


country in the soul?

Just a circus of faithless fools

Just a carnival of soundless minds.

…on a back road

…on a back road.

Can’t be if we just are

Back Roads

I drive these back roads…



reminded of home.

Long, desperate, going places that have passed along.

Gritty browns with nameless…greens.

A picturesque, quaint, scene.

Of course,

I have aged like farm-stand cheddar.

Tart but tasteful. with a woodsy trace.

Though life has sped up.

I manage to find a slower pace.

In a quest for deeper appreciation…

I delve further.

Windows down…

Listening for a weathered sound.

There are no wrong turns…

In my veiled valleys.

Just moss under my wheels.

And, a love for nature’s folly.

Breaking the Back of Pavement

Little hut in the snow…made from wood and all her vices.

I zip up close to the vest…

Only when it is time to leave.

Of the earth…my door of entry requires less shelter from the weather.

A warm hearth draws me near.

hut 1

Breaking the back of pavement…I am back on the beat

Neon walks in as intruder.

Ready to confiscate my light.

Doorways to peep shows whistle out misdeeds.

Hunched away from wordy words…there is not much to be said, when the city is out on display.

The clouds move so swiftly among tall buildings…

It is hard to keep up.

imageedit__3296752031Yet, I do not hurry.

My only harried pace is back to the wooden hut.

If Only a Mistress


Let it go.

As the blood traces my recovery.

What of the wise tale of motherly love?

Paternal pacts of protection?

The abuse nothing more than corded piles of wood’s deflection.

Sweet maple.

Tart pine.

A morning’s wood stove…a way of brandishing a ‘hello’.

Never felt sorry for self.

In those knotted woods.

No one spoke of, help.

If only a mistress

If only the plight of wrong turns on dark, gravel, back roads.

A diary of teenage dysfunctions

Foreplay for what was an 80’s norm.

The flow of the natural-born red river has not recovered me.

Alas, to separate will be all that is left to anchor the vagabond feet.


Not Absolute


Off the cuff, with emotions locked.xtra-door-ajar

A dead-end street to which I only see defeat.

Many ask…many greater and wiser than I.

‘When will the sadness end?’

To which, there has never been an absolute reply.

In the dainty house.

Down off the gravelled road.

Discrete, earthy…hidden.

Not a word of…

love as though it means something to someone…

give as though it requires no reward.

Be…when others have broken your heart’s sword.

With every attempt to cast away doubt.

With all the moments I have felt inside out.

With this picture perfect home…

At last, I must go it alone.

I can confide that the insanity has left the well dry.

The calls to a wedding for young love.

The rants and raves of doors that will not close.

The mysterious lack of sedation that hangs from collages on a logged wall.

Little house down the road.

Impeccable with country-style.

Alit to the eaves by autumn leaves.

Do not second judge.

The road ahead is meant for only me.