What beauty can be…
a lone mushroom
a barren tree
or some ragged weeds.
Mother and her nature do not judge my scars…
skinned lines that carried me so far.
Nor am I aware of discretions while I scamper towards her majesty.
I can stammer my words of poetry
often loose like a noose.
Yet, Mother and her nature…decide my needs.
Eery with the waft and wiff of wildlife.
Sad and yet, joyous is their song.
I understand between the lyrics…this, this, is where I belong.
Never to run, a walk is where my curiosity fits.
Though nothing is delicate between the thorns and ivy. And, cagey hills are lonesome and long.
The untamed…a favorite song.
Sanguine and sandal-ed…to the earth is where I belong.
My silhouette of vanity ties me to the beauty.
My silhouette, minuscule, to all of mother’s scenery.
The streets that I stray…
dusty with emerald mystery.
Still they call my name.
All thoughts and fears…
pebbled with blind trust.
To be a wild winged bird…
I would not know where to start.
To whisper into the wind…
I would not know where to begin.
Drifting has become a part of my woolen and woodsy need to be there.
With every nesting squirrel.
With all wild lingerers…
I roam just to be.
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…
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 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.