Shaker Road

shaker road 4

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.’shaker road 1

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.”

shaker road 5

“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.”

Dark Room


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

artistic misconduct.

a Bridge too Close

He knew of the nature of seed.

He knew not of the nature of others.

The pining echoes.

Traversing nearby hollows.

Winter berries that please.

Winter berries which impede.

He understood rugged instinct.

What a world to master as a, young man?

Cold thick waters…

a laundry


a bath?

He learned to feed the fire.


He accepted little of fire’s desire.

Year Upon…Rural Year

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.

Impatient Love

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.