Hunting Season

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It will be clear.

Those trolls listening both far and near.

Indefinitely indebted but still, I cannot go.

Chivalry in a voice.

These demons up on mountains made by moles…

‘Are not your choice.’

Though, the air I breath is not free.

If I walk away now,

I can own my own feet.

Villains and angels…abound.

Holes in the wall.

Furnace on stall.

There is not enough room on the ark for us all.

I will not choose to take what I need and leave the rest.

Cannot adhere to the father knows best.

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Small Town Notes

Small Town notes:

The secret to living in a small town is knowing when to go!

The town that finds you will bind you!

It’s time to give up the drugs…When the drugs give up on you!

Immoral acts are a prelude to the immoral scars left on you!

You, yourself and someone that looks like you…

Either way your wear your town well.

the baggage, the backtalk, the smell.

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New Hampshire has yet to step away from sedate behavior it has grown accustom to…Franklin is it’s skanky underbelly without under garments!

Where the Wind Blows

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I ache, like the fallen tree before me.

These farming fields so…solemn, soulful and, slightly…alone.

Peace is here.

It is in the catching of our breath.

Flying on gusts for a thousand miles.

I could find the unity…

If, the terrain, and I, were all that is left.

It has been windy here.

Seems…for a whole life.

Perhaps, that is what feeds a New England appetite.

 

the Northern Wallflower

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The day after yesterday…

the lilacs were gone.

Then the iris.

One by one, they were, also,  all departed.

All, but the northern wallflowers…that is.

Never do the gods account for the ever so green…up on the ridge.

This is where the grassy knolls have always replenished me.

I come here daily to see what it is you see.

No, you are not just a simple plot of trees.

What has been, seen daily, yearly, at your limbs hand?

The growth so measurable…

Yet, your roots have begun a different kind of land.

 ∞

In deepest sincerity,

my strength has atrophied.

But my vigor…as I watch your vastness…

I admit…is thought of differently.

In freshened mind, as you have portrayed…

I cannot walk this walk…only to return to my cave.

Though in beckoning winds I may…become altered.

A small resolution should not be what I am after.

 ∞

Came fall, ever green will turn to rust.

Came winter, your poignancy will become a changeling, yet, robust.

Sheltering all who follow you.

Giving the time to renew.

 

 

 

 

Fife Farm

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The clover is invincible…

The green gold grass…waist high.

Stocks of infant corn stand in allegiance…out of the corner of my eye.

And, that is all I need to know today.

That is all I need to know.