this Old House

This old house has seen it all before. The rummaging of angst…The backdoor horrors…

Three crows circling the unkempt gardens, pecking orders for the leftovers.

Descending much like beggars to pennies upon the floor.

This old house…closed for repairs…missing steps in the stairs.

Leaking self depreciating humor…encased in toxic rumor.

This old house…if only you had known sooner.

A foundation built on Christ.

Dining in prayer with the Father and a roll of the dice.

‘Come home.’

I shall tell you now.

I shall tell you now…

what all these years…

you have missed.

“Nail and frail and lying low. A legacy cast no shadow. For it must have not just shape and form, but contempt for danger…or, it only lay shallow.”

“Occasionally, we have to take care of those who once…took care of us. Often leaving, the participants, stuck between wonder-lust and antiquated mistrust.”

Home, Hostile, Home

Home!

Funny, odd, queer, with its anger.

Ham fist-ed jokes never given in moderation.

Games of…

monopoly…no dice.

Frisbee’s tight lipped and tainted black for playing at night.

Puns? A lead pipe to encourage all players to…think twice

The, I Was Only Joking, trophy, next to Home, Sweet, Home, place-mats, to adorn the holes in the wall.

Mad Jester, the biggest joker of us all.

Pastime of full contact Slap Jack.

Paperbacks left in the rain.

Simon Says, it is a never ending riddle.

Wisecracking those who wish to remain sane.

Rotten Apples

My home…with no family tree

no roots to secure fresh fruit

no need to touch the log cabin frame

no sense in digging up roots with already stained hands

no value to picking forbidden fruit with yellowed nails

After all these years, the crows still circle above.

No mention of love.

Houses That Only I Know

 

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No spider’s web just chilled air and thought.

I pass homes.

Houses that only I know.

Me, myself, as I am…alone.

And, when the entanglement be invisible…

I fall

I fall with bruised bone.

No matter the acclimation,

home, sweet home is long gone.

Mine is a history that dares me to repeat.

Mine is a history that dares me to repeat.

Breaking the Back of Pavement

Little hut in the snow…made from wood and all her vices.

I zip up close to the vest…

Only when it is time to leave.

Of the earth…my door of entry requires less shelter from the weather.

A warm hearth draws me near.

hut 1

Breaking the back of pavement…I am back on the beat

Neon walks in as intruder.

Ready to confiscate my light.

Doorways to peep shows whistle out misdeeds.

Hunched away from wordy words…there is not much to be said, when the city is out on display.

The clouds move so swiftly among tall buildings…

It is hard to keep up.

imageedit__3296752031Yet, I do not hurry.

My only harried pace is back to the wooden hut.