Purposeful Mimicry

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In the best of company

Harmony days hand-picked for setting the baggage free.

Never far away from the mountain of tempestuous temperatures.

I had knocked on heaven’s door…

But in truth, it took one knock more.

My nemesis is my best friend.

On that outward voices can depend.

Pointing out my flaws…with no compliance to chivalry.

Directing my defects with purposeful mimicry.

He, she or it…the devil’s personal dictator.

Always in the background portraying a self-indulgent Master Piece theater…narrator.

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Why go to the woods?

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms…Henry David Thoreau

Why do I go to the woods? The nature of things will always understand me better than I know myself.

an Invitation

Crickets and alike hear my random thoughts

Unmasked in the under brush…there is no need for abandonement…

Just a lyrical understanding of loss

Salamander, squirrel, evergreen and barren oak know of cost

Reverberation from forgotten caves

Divots into the forest of rain

Landscape reminders…we are not the same

I am only invited to release the shame

In…Mother’s Nature, she keeps me

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In Mother’s Nature…

She keeps me gentle

She keeps me sapient

She keeps me legitimate

She keeps me with timeless testsshe keeps me 3

She keeps me with flesh

She keeps me with dignity

She keeps me shady

She keeps me with chemistry

She keeps me with fragile, breakable reverie

She keeps me

She keeps me

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…a most indulgent mother, has placed her best gifts out in the open, like air, water and the earth itself; vain and unprofitable things she has hidden away in remote places.
##Thomas More

 

 

Laughing Pine

Laughing pine hold no sentiment for the fallen leaves.

If devotion were a winter gust…what would be just for us.

If rambling had been my disdain…no echo in refrain.

Yet, stolen from frozen time,

to lose resentment allots to listening in the dark to discarded rain and threaded foot and her traffic.

Could one become more than what red berry in powdered snow…

be my memories…distant and low?

No matter the distance in a country mile…I am nothing more than faded ilk…

propaganda with a manufactured smile.