Poverty Pond

Poverty Pond, what a lonely drink of water.

Does your name tell a story?

poverty pond 1

Or, has the richness of a thrashed season…stole the glory.

Gaps in the gleam and the glare…illusions of seeming to care.

What would you know of fanfare?

Black as a demon from a stolen heart.

Ugliness sinking from your lost cause.

Where have the ripples revealed all the flaws?

Dusky Bi-Way, Glory and Gods!


There is a point on this dusky bi-way.  Where you drive into heaven.  No gates, no end, no beginning.  A slow moving climax of Glory and Gods lay ahead.  Just rummaging around in petite country shacks.

Beyond the medicinal huts of cedar shake…Workers of varying beliefs.  All on a pilgrimage to move emancipated stone.

‘No task more difficult to conceive than to adjust acres of rock…Until it sets the soul right!’imageedit_26_2474227145

Grandiose gorges have been built on the premise of pride.  And, without warning, a lost river and life collide.  Waters sweep thru with an icy hand and wash the work away.

It is my theory that this is why the environmental/philosophical/exterior decorator…arrives.

Among many of us.  Those considered lost.  Those believed to be vagabonds.  Poets and artists seeking their do.  All of these and so much more…Such as myself…

Attempt the impossible…imageedit_33_8994973596

Only to walk away with this conclusion…

Sometimes you can take things away.  A gust of retrospect…Perhaps!  Yet, in the end, it all washes away to a greater scheme.  One we have yet to understand.’

Love on the Average

love as I know it

What would,

‘I told you so…’

matter to an…unkind day?

What if with the ordinary….

‘I cannot write you a love song…’

became truth…

by virtue of…wrong words getting in the way?


Down all the ill traveled roads.

Slippery slopes.

Suitcases overstuffed with piles of life.

Normalized days with irregular sized strife.


Common cold moments when I talk about things you don’t understand.

Pretty days with rainbows and flowers…

An excess that does not fill up our everyday hours.


The terms of our endearment were not made for pageantry nor glory.

It is the beginnings, making up the ends…of our whole love story.