Caution! Children Crossing

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What more can one say,

when all has dried up and gone away?

Everything about those words…a remembrance of home.

Dime store cares.

Never ending promises of…love.

On depleting stairs.

Steps alluding to family value.

Nothing but cross talk at a three-legged table.

Mothers eating their young.

Leaving the innocent…culpable and unable.

Upon a distant alcove…a three legged bed.

Unheeded guidance lay dormant.

A future crumpled, misconstrued…

It is bred, brooding and fed.jd-1

the Children’s Place

You had to walk, big and tall.

In this, the children’s place.

That is,watchtower 1

if you dare walk at all.

My loose ends, from blankets of downy despair.

Shag, drab, carpeting, coveted the falls.

Baneful comforts arrived such as, gypsies in the night.

Creature comforts mere flukes.

Strings to a grounded kite.

This, my children’s place.

With no saline for the eyes.

Dares for the wicked.

For only the wicked…

Dare cry.

Rustic Pardoning

From the, getting gone, polyester blanket…of another’s memories.

An apparition approached with no words to spare.

A vacant troth with not a single pitcher to fill her.

In the restraint of ghostly disarray.

A mongrel for written word…

I had nothing to say.

So much had been our way of caring without sharing.

A home-built for show.

Rustic pardoning of stain and cedar.

Secluded, even when wrapped in Christmas garland.

Innocence, here…had been given no pardon.

I could not then.

And, cannot still.

Contend with a ghost so frail.

Caught up in the pinnacles of life, I am but a mistaken void.

A template for those who neglect…

Or, simply, annoyed.

A fragrant weed behind a nameless graveyard.

Someone ghosts can yield and avoid.

Old Home Days

Slipping over my head.

As though, it had been there all along.

A gift of instilled courage, love and Styrofoam.

A hat of…

white, red and blue.

Alas, for twenty-five cents, I could do no wrong.

Under the wide brim.

Freckles expanding with the sun’s glare.

If memory serves me right.

It would be the first and the last time…

My grandfather seemed to care.

Forever, the stoic Irish Cop.

During games of skill and chance…

His judging frown let go its muster.

Odd in my innocence…

There was an awareness to our kinship.

As though, my blood lack luster.

Old Home Days brought a Rockwell grandfather back to me.

The kind children yearn for.

Softhearted elders…

telling tales of fabled glory.

The sort that… bounce you on their knees.

Presently,

I have a hundred hats or so.

And, that is not accounting for cherished ones…I let go.

Appears,

I am always dressing for that knock off Old Home Day…hat.

The one with white, red and blue ribbon…dangling in the back.

White Picket Fences

 

heeding the fire 2

For the pursuit of…

the bitch in heat,

in need of neglecting.

Give us your

white picket fence in need of tending.

Give us your

cause…

it is in need of defending.

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So many impassable highways.

a wonder it is…

that we still stand.

Notices of our past…dues.

Like flaxen locks of hair…

riddled with the blues.

 

There are no rainmakers in this lot.

No, to shadow dancing from broken stir-ups  in back alleys.

No more heroes from low lying valleys.

 

There is a trick to walking without need for a crutch.

There is a treachery to the fire…when it no longer inspires us.

white picket fences 2