He had an eye for these things.
But I had the soul.
The art of the moment, wasted with lies.
With all the chatter of aperture and metered light.
Exposures in a dark room.
You, looking for that idyllic covered bridge.
Me, searching for meaning to the words, ‘just live.’
As your dark room comes into contrast with my life.
The question still remains,
‘what of the devil you tried to tame?’
With a generation, come and gone,
I will right your wrong.
with all your attempts to school me…
All your photographed Rockwell ideology…
The shuttering speed of Americana.
All this and more, such great expectations.
Not a single tutored self-portrait.
a guild full of
What had been wrong with me?
Granite stone with names from different turns.
Could he have been just a tabloid mystery?
So many questions…under a rustic line of pine trees.
Roads winding in and around crevices amassed from weather, oh so turbulent.
Had the journey into deep, gathering country been wrong.
Could he have been just a teacher…giving lessons in distaste.
Offering long, forbidding ways in which love can go to waste.
Year upon rural year…the distance fought never remains.
Climate change offered no manner in which to stay the same.
Early in the frozen season, the weather is oppressive like my father’s impatient love.
Have not seen the sun in so long, a warming blood’s moon has replace shine’s pride.
I took out a plastic red rose, all at once, I felt more entitled…
less to hide.
And, down where the icy waters of Three River’s meet,
I placated my angst…bathed in organic retreat.