Conscientious Observer

I walk a foreboding country lane, as a conscientious observer.

The mystery of souls looming ever so close.

Behind moss capped tree trunks


snuggled beneath peeled birch bark.

A party of three, the dogs and I.

Interpret nothing…only stillness catches our eye.

To capture moments such as these; an attempt to recall a dream.

And, though the harvest is sweet…

to come back daily, my only sense of relief.

Handmade Coward

I am a handmade coward not fighting hard enough.

Not loving enough.

A slow setting sun…fanciful and whimsical.

My wrists…withered branches.

My dignity, a bad dream pretending to set things right.

In the bosom of a heavy load, how do the complacent go on?

Earth tumbles below and heaven cries from above.

I turn back toward home…sadness to be shared with love.

Sounds of Drifting

Sounds of my dysfunction…pales in the silence of snow drifting.

A prayer for forgiveness grows silent among the echo found in seclusion.

Among the shuffling timbers, I hear more than what is apparent.

Stumbling around my humanness…I grasp the acoustics of letting go.

Should there always be a insult from me to here?

Insulating quiet seems so rare.