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.



Harold…Never Harry


Harold used to give me…used light bulbs

swaddled with a fistful of Fig Newtons.

He was not half bad

He was not half good

Brutal were his words of love.

His not so slight of hand…caustic like cord wood.

A place for everything and everything in it’s place.

Harold gave me a broken brass lamp.

And, a mask to keep germs closer to our face.