Purposeful Mimicry

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In the best of company

Harmony days hand-picked for setting the baggage free.

Never far away from the mountain of tempestuous temperatures.

I had knocked on heaven’s door…

But in truth, it took one knock more.

My nemesis is my best friend.

On that outward voices can depend.

Pointing out my flaws…with no compliance to chivalry.

Directing my defects with purposeful mimicry.

He, she or it…the devil’s personal dictator.

Always in the background portraying a self-indulgent Master Piece theater…narrator.

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Scents of Creosote

I had been easily tempted to witness the burn out house.

To recollect those feelings.

To cherish my hatred.

To bemoan decades of fear and doubt.

I drove by the structure

times 1I drove by

And, drove by again.

My wanting for display began to wear thin.

Scents of creosote and thin dusky air does not change.

So, I went to raging waters to rearrange.

To evoke black soot tragedy from another’s time…could never be mine.

I had discovered the healing rains ever so kind.

Crooked Pike

billowy shade runs rapid

it will never stay too long

a happy ending to the saddest song

all basins…perilous and fast

I wonder what possibility they will cast

Suppose…no one will know…one way or the other

why take shelter from the rain…

it will find us…just the same

Hell’s Humidity

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“Is the glass half-full or empty?”  I ask her as I fill it.

She said,

“It doesn’t really matter…Pretty sound your bound to fill it.”

…..I had been dampened, such as, a cotton towel left in a June rain.  Still, unsanctioned…and moist.  Waiting among the firing flies…

I had no airs to put off…

No need for complaint.

However, in this wet climate…I am not a saint.

I have heard a hundred degrees over the limits…

I have heeded the warnings.

On the road to weather’s hell…to infinity and back…

As my cup began to teeter with drink

All she could muster, again and again…

had been…humid 1

“Be careful…You’ll be bound to spill it.”

 

Harvesting the Seed

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He had never been an intended farmer

And, perhaps, Mr. Frost knew he never would be

Unintentionally up in the notches…working the land with hands calloused by tragedy

Cursed tractors, sullen cows, an unconditional hell’s paradise

Baskets of discoveries…In one’s own unmade garden

 

Trained to farm the land…Once gone…

I had no intention of going back.

Searching the pavement for creativity

poking about the neon

digging in dollar signs and dimes for deliberate self-discovery

The writings on the wall were slipping away into graffiti

So, maybe Mr. Frost had been an intended farmer, after all

His seeds of thought burning a hole in my pocket

His travels into struggle…

Left open for me green fields of self-discovery