Being…the Artful Dodger

This fragility of being is solely mine…

imageedit_12_6775057211hand tossed.

Much like a mistakenly crisp late spring, piney waft.

On which, so much feeds.

Or, purposely perpetuated wants…overcoming needs.

I can set my sights on a higher power…

that seems often higher and higher.

And, soon out of my reach.

imageedit_2_2403441738

Conversely, I can assume the best of intentions from quiet savagery…

the artful being that grows above and below the seed.

 

Running Down a Memory

When chasing a memory, I concede!

A wanting for everything.imageedit_5_3071766003

Everything it should have been.

If I amble after a flashback…too far

It will surely run me back.

A tackle-box  of strangeness from the past.

wheels in motion

fresh cut grass

the fur lined evergreens reeking of purity.

Inflamed by all that is good to remain.

I chase the postcard distance for a sense of glory.

Dignity, however, has only one expression among the tall peaks.

Nothing to glamorize.

No memory is free.

Summers with Frost

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

I did not see a rushing tide to my epiphany.

Just a babbling brook.

A natural lodging place.

Where I skinned my heart…

skinned my knees.

Even then the wonderment of

‘who owns these woods…I think I will never know.’

A circle confined by pine.

Flashlights spinning a victor’s kiss…

and, true, it would never find.

A masquerade of cowboy and Indian by the poetry palace…

Barefoot, carefree and calloused.

Mystery grew where the wild things go.

Or, so the ghostly, ghastly, tale would be told.

Decades later,

a lazy women’s lackluster carving of wood.

A dated damsels attempt at,

would have, should have, still could.

All thoughtful handmade devices…designed up in the notch.

Gentle moments flashing back to my childhood playground.

Across from Mr. Frost.