Small Town Notes

Small Town notes:

The secret to living in a small town is knowing when to go!

The town that finds you will bind you!

It’s time to give up the drugs…When the drugs give up on you!

Immoral acts are a prelude to the immoral scars left on you!

You, yourself and someone that looks like you…

Either way your wear your town well.

the baggage, the backtalk, the smell.

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New Hampshire has yet to step away from sedate behavior it has grown accustom to…Franklin is it’s skanky underbelly without under garments!

Big Brown Dog, and a Roadside Poet

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Everyone deserves to be a poet…for one day.

A knock off…laureate on display.

Fortunate, daughter, it is your day.

I found the river not lost but…wandering.

The water so clamorous,

that pockets of everyday living…can flow, in and around you.

Decisions that can be left for another day.

Battles, won or lost, whether you go or stay.

Coarse, they are, these headstones or markers, along the way.

The big brown dog always aware of impending calamity.

Roots boulder deep…

So much so, they could arise the dead from their sleep.

“It must be not enough to be the voice of someone else’s reason.

It must be enough to be our own reason.”

But these are dreams we dream…when we have no other dreams left.

Blue collar workers of rhyme, denizens of word theft.

Course, there are dried, deadlock, beds…

and, one wonders who else has come before to steal time?

But I have just got my broken feet back on the ground.

And, am not prepared to settle down.

The big brown dog…she does not care.

Taking it as it comes.

Life…that is.

More or less, as long as, there is a roadside rest.

And, the occasional, foot bridge requiring an athlete’s best.

So, it is myself, and the big brown dog…with big brown eyes…

Myself, mostly upright.

She, in a habitat of brown leaves.

Down by a random stream.

Dreaming a roadside poet’s dream.

 

the Northern Wallflower

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The day after yesterday…

the lilacs were gone.

Then the iris.

One by one, they were, also,  all departed.

All, but the northern wallflowers…that is.

Never do the gods account for the ever so green…up on the ridge.

This is where the grassy knolls have always replenished me.

I come here daily to see what it is you see.

No, you are not just a simple plot of trees.

What has been, seen daily, yearly, at your limbs hand?

The growth so measurable…

Yet, your roots have begun a different kind of land.

 ∞

In deepest sincerity,

my strength has atrophied.

But my vigor…as I watch your vastness…

I admit…is thought of differently.

In freshened mind, as you have portrayed…

I cannot walk this walk…only to return to my cave.

Though in beckoning winds I may…become altered.

A small resolution should not be what I am after.

 ∞

Came fall, ever green will turn to rust.

Came winter, your poignancy will become a changeling, yet, robust.

Sheltering all who follow you.

Giving the time to renew.

 

 

 

 

Fife Farm

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The clover is invincible…

The green gold grass…waist high.

Stocks of infant corn stand in allegiance…out of the corner of my eye.

And, that is all I need to know today.

That is all I need to know.

Your Touch has grown Cold

Dearest, here we are back…doing what we used to do.

The promise of calendar days just a prosthetic gesture.

A sub-conscience decision to blur the vision.

Darling, I know something about love.

It isn’t dressed in hazard red.

It isn’t laced in road closed puns.

Yes, dear, I too, know something about love.

There is a dusting on the road…

a Sunday drive to nowhere I am told.

Dearest, you are the predator to this unseasonably cold censorship.

But then again, you’ve always gave me the inclement slip.

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