Somewhat Sane


An eerie sense of comfort in the December mist.

I collect all my faults in…what is unnoticed.

Though, I am not half the woman I think I am.

Isolation in the still-life of rain…

Guards the fact that I am still somewhat…sane.



A Kind of Sun

In the barren isolation of pine.

No matter, how immobile, I wish to be.

It is no secret.

I must move my feet.

Nature crunches below.

While frolic and folly, ascend, above.

Winter’s stroll becomes a gusty game of hide and seek.

No need to daydream of summer’s peak.

Passive is the lull of traction.

The sun has no motive.

It is just a reaction to my half hearted…actions.imageedit_39_4786711961

A One Story House



I met a woman who owned a lone house.

She kept it, as is,

for prosperity’s sake.

‘Can I help you?’ she quipped.

At the moment, I wished for isolation.

So a vague attempt was given to, wordy invitation.

Oh, to be as a stray thing…in control of my own destination.

The conversation remained subtle and soft.

As if to not hurt anyone’s sense of appeal.

And, thus, I stood struck dumb by the need to not feel.

A loner, extroverted, needs respite in which to breathe.

Such are the monsters, we feed.

This stranger did not tell me a story…

That I did not already know.

Whether unkempt or out in not green pastures.

There somethings we cannot let go.

We parted ways with the agreement…

That we would meet again, someday.

In the rear view of life…

Sometimes, it is only ‘remember when’ that makes us stay.


the Good Household


There has always been a strange way to gather persons near.

A tune to mania in fire.

Satire from a funeral pyre.

Members of the good household.

The union of delirium.

Held their place with color.

All were,

back-handed their cast.

One black, one red, one blue…

Each with their anthology of dues.

Fifty years young, I ponder that avocation.

My father’s way of isolating hate.

As if,

compassion meant escape.


love to a ghastly iron gate.

Housed had been the laughter on a two-party line.

Inside friends…difficult to find.

Yet, with all these years of postmortem reflection.

It  had been the quiet huntress who kept the everyday, subdued.

I am awed still by the hidden portrait of pain she installed.

Meticulously setting the colors of my small world,

for a fall.



Zen n the Art of Moped Maintenance: Rte.132

moped 2

It is not as though I haven’t been this route before.  The best word, which isn’t so eloquent to describe my feelings… had been, green, greener and greenest!

But after seducing my biker butt back into a more comfortable enviroment; certainly, green does not do it justice.
When you ride there is a feeling of isolation.  As if, you and your steed, were the only beings in the world.
As a tear begins to puddle in your sunglasses.  A tear that is aroused by wind, dust and bugs…As that little production of waterfall surfaces to a distraction, you begin to think about…what else can make me cry so quickly?  When was the last time I cried?  Than, of course, the mind wanders.  As is often the case, alone but not lonely at about 45 mph, down an outcast piece of pavement.
Distorted thoughts, faded images, freedom and the feeling of being in a mobile confession booth…hits the rider.
I like my confession booth.  It and the fresh air remind me, this is it.  This is what you’ve done wrong with your life.  And, more prolifically, this is where all the love you’ve given out…has brought you.
These images that fade always leave me curious.  Like the old barns that are dim but still cathartic…placed poetically up on a hill.
I wonder to myself; Did it shift?  Have I lost track of time?  Are the vines that engross it, possibly, more beautiful than before?
I know down deep in my heart of souls and soul with heart…this Norman Rockwell picture will never be the same as, yesterday or tomorrow.
Sad you cannot bottle this feeling.  Take it out and taste it…in the dead of a New Hampshire winter.
Route 132, however, will always be a part of the ride.
Lesson learned today?
You can never out run the storm.  You can elude it for a short while.  You can curse it with bad thoughts.  Your only true friend?  A bridge’s under pass.  A shelter that seems so trite and routine.  Yet, something that can bring solace from the menacing rains.