Drawing in the Dust

Evermore you have been there.

Been here.

Been somewhere.

When the dust has drawn a vacancy,

your spice fritters away in auspicious tendency.

It takes great courage to let go of the familiar.

Thus, thru toils and spoils,

a constant chase.

A forever soiled embrace.

And, then…

as a matter of course,

a yield of gratitude…

to hasten the secrets faced.

Meeting House Hill

Twigs and things

Open palm ferns and town pound in the spring

I am a braggart, beggar for distraction

Rainbow pinwheels refusing to remain still and sunsets over a lazy hill

Let me drink you in and always be full

These worries I carry like a hungry dog in search of a bone

These worries are in need of clean fill

Congregations up on Meeting House Hill

Let me drink you in and always be full

Natural Drunkard

This constant search and agreement that the road carries on.

This bond with nature is bittersweet.

A constant gnawing.

A scratching at an evergreen door.

And, the earth fine as elderberry wine.

Another indulgence that never quite wets…my lips.

Such a drunkard am I!

I drink in the rainbow of flavors with a guzzle…not a sip.

An inebriated understanding…I am so small.

Mother Nature, the only beverage I drink in.

A seduction to which it is certain…I will fall.

Speaking of the Sun

Here, there and everywhere, an acceptance of things I cannot change

the way the sun carries forth my soul

the way my hound…impeaches practicability like a troll.

Woeful lay…my expectations under an open sky.

Nonetheless…this is not a hike toward deep rooted, bulky…control.

Speaking to the glow on my skin…

Never in that…the questioning tone…

How I am made to feel unpredictable?

And in the ardor of freedom…am I remiss to ask,


Here, there and, everywhere…complacency will sit alone for the briefest of moments.

Seated at the right hand of a whistling southerly, breeze.

Hounds commence to frolic and play.

An aroma of roasted clover rises up.

Tomfoolery…lights the way.

Helping Turtles Across the Road

It is a worry

I know

the circling of many a crow

I cannot avoid the chaos maneuvering…

just below the surface


well underground

Vast, mingling, elements casting spells seamlessly


without a sound

Though my actions be deliberate and quiet

Most observations are eager

So much so,

I yearn for the simplicity of a clown

Why is it…

I cannot scratch a basic itch when no evidence found

And, still be invoked to chewing gum while helping turtles destined to go…

where they are bound