Tent in the Woods

Tent City is in the air.

Has it just arrived or…had it always been there?

The hillside is on fire with the anonymous.

Between the purple majesty…lay a forgotten influx.

No post in which to hang our flag.

No tails to be wagged.

MIchael Ginnie: holding a picture of Junior. Junior ended up being surrendered. As Michael puts it, “…the winter outside…ain’t no place for a dog!”

Down country lanes with no true name…

No city grit to meet the feet.

How rural the homeland and it’s deceit.



Just a Band-Aid

Only a Band-Aid away from What, I do…

from What I say!

Miller Creation/D. Lange

Running with the Jones’s…living in the fray.

A stranger to me, she seemed to have moved a full house…

in the middle of a full moon night…

with only distant light to display her plight.

Way out on a savagely grown heritage trail…

My suspicious mind nothing but a broken arrow.

I am a display all my own.

Self-centered and sharp…meant to implode and impale.

Que me veux tu - What you want me 1928 Claude Cahun (French, 1894–1954) France Photographer
Claude Cahun:

Four wheels filled to the brim.

Greetings were exchanged.

Both of us portrayed discomfort, as though it were…a late summer’s whim.

My stranger packed all nuances away…

As if it were just another day.

My despair traveled with me, another quarter of mile.

In the end,

turning all attention to me…

I had lost my stranger some how.

hints and accidents 2

Hopeless Sinner


If I ran too far away…Would the thoughts continue to haunt me?  Have I done enough?  Have there been changes due to my recourse?

There is always a loss for me…When avoiding those with less than I!

A young woman!  Do I question how she began her turmoil?  Eight months pregnant!  No more than twenty years old!  Looking for money.  Looking to get back home!  Is it a fable?  Her story laden with the same old…same old!  Young, strung out, pregnant…

I shook her hand and walked away.  Not before, offering her advice about a local church group familiar with persons in her situation.


Could I have done more?


Hopeless Sinner


How harsh the lack of wind?

Nothing but damp hands…

Nomads clinging to all the sins.

Cattle circling ’round a cynical funeral pyre.

And, I am nothing but the biggest critic.

A hoarding heifer on two hoofs.

Living a meaningless mile between home…

And, life without a roof.

Sometimes I nod in the direction to those less preferred by nature.

A hopeless sinner.

I know my place.

Just as soon as I, turn my blind eye…

to save face.


Half Mast

It appears, as of late, as though, we are always at half mast.

Everyone flying without wings.

Bank robbers without banks.

Cowboys and Indians without a hero.

Nowhere zones for nobody.

The local inconvenient-mart surrounded by splintered beings.

There is no glorified banner of right or wrong…

Good or evil.

Just a setting in which…desolation can dwell.

Peace on earth; a cup of twice brewed coffee…

weak and watery.

The middle of the road…lawless without castles.

Pieces of titled heaven in a used car lot.

Vetted veterans to the unknown wars…

no glory, no banner.

Just a holiday savings at the state liquor store.

Alas, no morals are left for the majority tours…of duty.

Daily helping hands down at the pantry.

Empty church pews guarded by rock star sentries.

Left on their own for fruitless searches.

To unearth nowhere places with placid deserters.


the Difference between Bread and Roses


Sitting and thinking of what can be done?  No different than pulling a shade to a knife fight in the street.  Turning a back to a homeless person with a hand out.  Seeing that change is needed and responding with…



“It is remarkable, that persons who speculate the most boldly often conform with the most perfect quietude to the external regulations of society. The thoughts alone suffice them, without investing itself in the flesh and blood of action.”

― Nathaniel Hawthorne, the Scarlet Letter