Vanishing in 89

Vanishing back in ’89

Casualties of ’89

A conductor’s timepiece…

doing time

A clockwork of technicolor breakdowns

And, races to the finish smeared with red tape

Cheers of holding on, discoveries that came much too late..

Vanishing in ’89

Family values of a primitive kind

No matter how white the snow may currently be

it has no choice to soil itself down

It is in the deficient nature of the beast

Running down in ’89

With no importance of the finish line

Can a new reality be forged

Can we allow tainted walls closer to

the heart…

Can yesterday beckon a seasoned start

Vanishing and gone… back in ’89

Closer, closer, closer to fine

No matter how secluded those that were dear

No matter how sequestered they appear

Beastly bones are nothing more than a…

Handed down meaningless antique

Vanishing in ’89

I wonder back to the screeching night

and

where to draw the darkest of fine lines

Be chivalrously autonomic

Being intimately private to true bone

Being in internal love, one but not alone

this Old House

This old house has seen it all before. The rummaging of angst…The backdoor horrors…

Three crows circling the unkempt gardens, pecking orders for the leftovers.

Descending much like beggars to pennies upon the floor.

This old house…closed for repairs…missing steps in the stairs.

Leaking self depreciating humor…encased in toxic rumor.

This old house…if only you had known sooner.

A foundation built on Christ.

Dining in prayer with the Father and a roll of the dice.

‘Come home.’

I shall tell you now.

I shall tell you now…

what all these years…

you have missed.

“Nail and frail and lying low. A legacy cast no shadow. For it must have not just shape and form, but contempt for danger…or, it only lay shallow.”

“Occasionally, we have to take care of those who once…took care of us. Often leaving, the participants, stuck between wonder-lust and antiquated mistrust.”

Pine and Oak

I look and lock down these stairs to the catacombs.

I understand as a stumble, there will never be freedom.

The intertwined pine and oak…lamented before me alludes to a place ‘never to be.’

Hatred and swinging leather belts.

Love mixed with skin pelts.

I write shortly of incidents others have felt.

Thus, I donate my life to disrepair.

To tiled and titled adults without a care.

Tell me now,

how polyester made life light?

Why the campfire of want…became hell?

70’s Santa

The turn off route 93 had been slight

This is what I remember of the night.

There had been no threadbare child’s strap to encase my dreams.

There had been no traveling movie…to allow normal to be sane.

I remember those star crusted memories as though, I could achieve, I could achieve, I could achieve.

After coming from nap time with Santa and no delivered good to be had.

Remember, remember, the polka dot, the low fashion, the plaid.

Adorable in strawberry blonde.

Cute with a nose like a knob.

These days I do not allow myself to be host.

Santa, with perception, can now be a ghost.

the Good Mother

Marion Post Wolcott

There had been placid times when the good mother gave me trust.

Faith held together with duct tape and the watered down glue of stability.

The stroke of my cheek while facing the end of times were infrequent and often malignant.

I often wonder had the sterile touch of veiled angels been too much.

Too much to transfix my childish mind to what was kind.

Had I ever truly had a mother.

A mother to curl into with my twisted body and troubled mind.

With purity dug in deep into blood and tears,had she wanted, needed, another.