What is Less Sought

down in the hollows where my secrets lie

I do not know where but I am certain I know why

aware of the grasshoppers, thundering under potted ferns and cemented angels

these unvetted prophecies kick the dirt out of my mind…time to time

but when internal misery comes by…when it is less sought

it beckons by in a flood of wrongs not what is just my simple ‘lot’

I visited my blood in a sense of duty to dust away my plights, my faults

appealing to the autumn breeze I could not let go of…

I am not you

I can be love

Mother Melancholia

Ah, I understand now, alone, a product of ancient Rome

(a black collar, middle class, value family from my generation.)

Generation Catacomb!

WE utter tumors of blood.

For with OUR blood…plug the dykes and the wall still remains

It was there I had seen him first.  An overly clean orderly with distended belly. Apparently, he had many needs to feed his vice.



Oh, Mother Melancholia had been a woman-child of gelled mold.  Obliging, as a casserole.  She had been known for trading a weekend passes just to come in from the cold.

Catacomb Lovers you fill my psyche with only lies.

Broad is a shipwrecked boat in the woods, swinging from a household tree.

Sweaty are the breasts upon cursed, crafty cave.


I protest to this embankment,

The residents, the freaks, are prepared to overthrow!

No matter how you keep your pansies, well groomed.  No matter the vials for your smiles.  A Pagan Reformer tide…will be coming soon.  Crimson waters will punish your passageway.

..a chastity belt notched around the tombs.



Veiled Hollows Abound

So true, the closer the destination.
The further it be… out of grasp.
So true, the ice forming over the grass.
What to make of an end…
I cannot meet.
Obvious, the hindered earth underneath my feet.
Jagged bone of soil all around.
Veiled hollowed abound.
Sometimes the miles traveled.
Seem not worthy my trial.
Whatever tomorrow brings.
Can it be worthy of my journey’s denial.imageedit__2982973039


Do Not Go Gently

I lay my head down last night.  Feeling a physical ache that not a word can describe.  I wanted to wallow in my pity.  I wanted to dunk way down into the depth of ‘what I can no longer do…’self reflection!  I have Degenerative Disc Disease.  Title or no title, medical term or not.  I often believe myself to have a pain so significant…It is a suffering not a soul born…has witnessed…AS I have.

There are moments in which I give time its due.  Promise the Powers that Be…’You can take me now!’  I am not suicidal.  I am in electrifying misery.   The Devil, Melancholy, can have what is reusable of my…Physical Self.

It seems at wit’s end.  When I envision; No more long walks in the wilderness, no hiking, no photography, no paying homage to the Mother Earth…That through a special blend of compassion, wisdom and self seeking…I find at the end of my rope?  A trinket that has been there all along.  I just did not look deep enough!

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Starve the Ache


If I saw her I would have run.  But the shadowy figure had been me…and, I know what that means.

Just a hop, skip and a jump!  As, I am aware of every morning.  Even that athletic tussle…would not set me…free.

Awareness and chronic pain go hand in hand.

You cannot ignore…What you can no longer stand.

In the midst of night dreams.  There are aggressive ‘let me out!’  Bouts of terror.

Within the scope of words and phrases…I have searched.

Nothing has prevailed.

Deep-rooted is the ache that lives with me on earth.