I have seen sorrow being dragged upon the forest bed.
Sorrow and Grief…her best friend.
I drag them barefoot…scrapping fractious feet upon disruptive, chaotic floor.
Both women, put upon by the light snow and distant screams.
With fist in a ball and charity along my lines of pine.
Sorrow comes as a matter of recourse.
And, grief…she grabs hold with a ragged limb.
She allows just enough for my carriage of thought to run…thin.
Sorrow and grief, my friends for now, remember every vacant vow
the terrain, coarse with a mortal’s soul.
And, what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
And, what’ll you do now, my darling young one?
I’m a-goin’ back out ‘fore the rain starts a-fallin’
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest dark forest.
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty.
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters.
“Damn the wars but bless the soldier.” – Moffitt
It is everything and nothing but the in-between.
A hard road meeting up with the horizon.
It is the yuletide.
A cathartic Sunday service.
It is the year of living with and, without, friends.
With one trail closing in on another.
It is the woody scent of a seasoned forest.
The manner in which the pine cones descend.
It is the constant hopes for ‘glad tidings.’
It is the year of living with and, without friends.
I brought my misery and discomfort down to the water.
Washing the pain.
As if it were both sane and insane.
Rolling it over.
Caressing all sides.
A loose hallucinogenic thought from my…forever tousled head.
Death, be not a, pebble or diamond…
That is mulled over in the rough.
No matter, how minuscule.
Just a stone in Mother Nature’s fold.
A pyre to the edges of nowhere…
Ashes to dust.
Glacier to granite to simple coal.
Sweet and salty remembrances.
Shattered and whole.
Such meditative collections of, loss and death.
Infinitely too much for my human intake.
Thus, with precious stone, in hand.
I gave a toss to roving waters.
A physical attempt to disperse the grief.
And, with a shy landing,
Setting into motion…
Life as it collides.
With both the light and the dark, sides.
dedicated to Janice Bowley – 10/1940 – 5/2017
There is a road, no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night.
Ripple/ the Grateful Dead