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.
Let me ask you this,
‘how would it be if we kissed…nose to muzzle, muzzle to this?’
With the onslaught of winter wind from the trees would it bring me to inspiration from bend-ed knee.
I clasp upon what you have given me…snowy wool, star-like gaze, wandering that cannot be betrayed.
Two feet to four paws, I have always been in awe.
These stages of pronounced reverence have given to the inspiration that I need.
Mile upon, as far as the crow flies, mile, there has only been deliverence from what we are forced to see.
I could walk with you for a distance of markers, blank and unforgiven, in the wilderness.
How basic? To live, to live, to live, with that which pardons the manner in which we give.
With moments such like a desolate snowflake, hanging from the sky.
I walk my daily assertions and provoke, why?
The cold and the lucidity encapulates me.
I cannot always get there from here.
Yet, I am still open wide and apathetically, naturally, translucent to what nature offers me.
Traveling left of false roads…lifting a heavy foot, I am not too old.
Too old to bear the fruit of red berry, solo on downtrodden branch.
Further, into unmarked mystery, for bleak seconds, I find my second chance.
Country affirmations leave a stone heart vivid with darkened greens and snow-blind white.
Country proclamations steal my sideways glance.
Not all that is meant to be…
Not all is within sight.
I didn’t know if I would find him
I didn’t know if I cared
I knew for certain…
Pain would greet me there.
Prone on ice
Fallen to antiquity
Lacking in grace.
Tis’ an ache to country in the bones.
Choked up on pity
Suffocated by your misery
A family of tabloids
Yesterday’s yearbook in upon sepia’s thunder.
Not one for paying heed to the road taken.
is one small step…
in an embattled recovery.
House of blues
country in the soul?
Just a circus of faithless fools
Just a carnival of soundless minds.
…on a back road
…on a back road.
Can’t be if we just are
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.
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.”