The Cast of Pain

the Mills, Franklin NH

Don’t want to walk through the pain.

But the want…

and

the need…

are not the same.

There is no religion to the agony.

There is no need for the ache’s shame.

Suppose…

only the want remains.

Only remains a cast of shadow in the day.

The day I stop…

walking through the pain.

to Breathe or not to Breathe

I have written off that which is not known

Crashing into the earth…secrets come with the winds.

Dismissive pine needles of discourse…go, flow, go.

I choke on the ashes of the earth.

Soiled and turned and forgotten…

what is it that leave the belly of the beast that grows, grows and grows?

Perhaps a bitter forested pill which is embedded in plumes of snow.

To breathe or not to breathe.

The swaying maple, birch and alike,

are crying.

And, I sit singing their refrain.

Vanishing in 89

Vanishing back in ’89

Casualties of ’89

A conductor’s timepiece…

doing time

A clockwork of technicolor breakdowns

And, races to the finish smeared with red tape

Cheers of holding on, discoveries that came much too late..

Vanishing in ’89

Family values of a primitive kind

No matter how white the snow may currently be

it has no choice to soil itself down

It is in the deficient nature of the beast

Running down in ’89

With no importance of the finish line

Can a new reality be forged

Can we allow tainted walls closer to

the heart…

Can yesterday beckon a seasoned start

Vanishing and gone… back in ’89

Closer, closer, closer to fine

No matter how secluded those that were dear

No matter how sequestered they appear

Beastly bones are nothing more than a…

Handed down meaningless antique

Vanishing in ’89

I wonder back to the screeching night

and

where to draw the darkest of fine lines

Be chivalrously autonomic

Being intimately private to true bone

Being in internal love, one but not alone

Sorrow for Now

Freedom minus fear = FAITH

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

and…

the terrain, coarse with a mortal’s soul.