Lilac by the Barn

I am but a bystander who has praised words of woe and purity. And, I have tried tampering at the landscape! And, I am unwilling to give up on a valiant fight.

These Lilacs that espouse only once a year. These Periwinkles of cascading yearly trials. These Lavenders, offspring to the garish New Hampshire late winter weather, confuse and excite all the same.

I wish to only hold these thoughts but once a year. As a Lilac comes slowly, leaves quickly. Its romance lingers on aesthetics and colorful fear.

Plotting and potting, the toil, I say this quickly. For with earnest steps the springtime will go.

Learn to breathe again…

and…

never hold love against the old stables and fresher flora.

In the depths of all vanity intertwined, such as, vines to a tree…

I promise to embrace your beauty as fleeting as it may be.

Life’s Coloring Book

Life fades as if a watercolor sunrise

purple and blue, crying together

red and orange infuse onto green’s meticulous tapestries.

An iron wrought with delicate seams.

Imagery that never quite becomes…caught.

Chasing the tail of struggles for what is not always sought.

All of the above, coloring book fights that have been previously, fought.

A spectacle of speckles and freckles within the calamity of just one thought.

It would not matter the words I shout, groovy or sick, to the patchwork hills.

Indulgence, demons and reprieve, a masquerade of cheap thrills.

Autumn Tree

Even if the sky were mediocre it would be more chivalrous than I.

Me, the gatherer of plastic goods…

the collector of false idols.

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My well traveled gifts are malignant.

But the clumping and crinkling of an autumn tree requires the best of me.

There in the rolling, ripples of a Pemigewasset river, a narrative to be retrieved.

Here in a forlorn field of dreams…a mystery.

Set against a leaning, lecturing oak…only intrigue.

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Sounds…Ever…Green

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there is a silver living to the white noise of a forest

a unique manner that pulls static from air

tender, invisible touches…slowing a harried way

I could stand in the ever green of nothingness…

not knowing if sound or sight has gone or stayed

how rare it is to take notice of the peace?

and, if I were to take my weathered hand to scoop ease away…

pocket the quiet grace for another kind of sway?

brooding crickets, settling leather tree trunks…

could seek refuge in the silence

all respite would fall from compliance…

leaving no room for another day

Staring Down Winter

On and on, a breeze.

Endlessly, the rain.imageedit_60_6920751381

Yet, no place leftover.

That would keep the sane.

With a hush blowing in the winds.

And, late clover, for all cares.

A shadow of far off distances.

And, the knowledge of winter’s stare.