In Search of Snow Angels

 

 

These are respite places.

Or, so we are told.

But in the interim, a simple plotted gesture for wandering souls.

I tell my lover, to make her aware.

She never hesitates to let me be.

She, alone, understands the expelling of, demons, no one else can see.

It is not mystique I seek.

Nor, blind guidance, from sacred places.

It is the silence that can only be found by…

pursuing to understand…

Understand something that will never be…

Never be completely understood.

Yet, the quest stays like a solemn secret stage.

A critiqued, columned, colloquial,

in which peace is at play.

 

the Merrimack: Pauper Cemetery, Revisited

‘What a peculiar fascination,’ one would say.

Yet, looking at it with morning eyes,

I would have it no other way!

Each and everyone, designed to suffer.

And, once gone,

only pillared stories remain.

Tales of wanting to rule our world.

 

In proper, pauper, place, every name, one in the same.

The convicts that have come to maintain.

They too, have no name.

As I stroll the rails, to an obliged gate.

There is a sense to where laughter, remorse and bad tidings…

could have begun.

Almost an inkling is given, to stare, directly into the sun.

Thus a retort, my constant fascination, lies in the work…

Still needing to be done.

 

 

One Jealous Woman

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There are certain streets,

that certain people walk on.

And, it is with great certainty, that is just how it is.

Fringe towns live as though they may fall off the map, any day.

It’s citizens love as today…were the last.

With empty pockets they will always carry their neighbor’s burden.

And, of that,  I am certain.

Humble pie is a pauper’s diet.

It is better to lay with dogs than walk with thieves.

Not all shallow waters are what they seem.

Sweet dreams deserve a morning’s mention.

And, of that, I am certain.

There ain’t no rest for the wicked…unless we are five feet underground.

Justice is silent.

But tyranny has sound.

One jealous woman can out fox ten misguided men.

And, of that, I am certain.

A prophet I am not.

But I am, however, the best I’ve got.

Prophets we are not.

But we are, however, the best we’ve got.

Masquerade and Escapades

Masquerade and Escapades

escapade 7

What becomes of you my sweet

no more to,

white minstrel shows,

mad hatter dates,

escapades of middle of the road…friendly foes.

Mother’s little dysfunctional helper.

I ask again, what becomes of you my darling,

What becomes you my friend.

Nothing but knock off diamonds on the floor.

A salt and pepper princess looking to make sense

of a straight-jacket world.

escapades 6

Daddy’s baby girl…no more shucking oysters for pearls.

It would seem a place-mat of sour grapes lay discarded on the floor,

and, the runt of the litter…abandoned at the front door.

 

I ask again,

what becomes of you my friend.

You are not what you once seemed.

What becomes you my friend

It would appear,

thin dimes and a poetic pauper’s dream.

 

...pain and pride cannot live in the same house.
…pain and pride cannot live in the same house.

Memories of a Pauper

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If you’ve come for a read that is congruent and cohesive and light and fluffy and organized; turn away now.

Go ahead, just turn the page!  Turn the randomness off.  Let the absolution of life, as it should be, take hold.  You weren’t meant for this blog.

So, I beg of you once more…

‘take your business elsewhere if you are looking for candy coated organized methodical words!’

 

Down the street from the corner of mad meth dealers and two dollar hookers standing in sodden snow.  Over the hill and through the woods, we go to the Pauper’s cemetery.  The cemetery just happens to be, as the turkey vulture flies, two miles exact, from the orphan’s cemetery.

The orphanage as best guess, without doing too much research was built around 1880.  It had been run by bent on the threat of Hell’s angels and nuns in black cloaks.

The pauper cemetery, yet another loosely based research subject: 1820’s or so.  Most stones belong to persons in and out of the insane asylum that had been up the hill.

Most stones, graves, markers and/or place to put the dead, in both of these locations, bare few names, little in the way of epitaphs and typically house numbers.  Numbers such as, VII circa 1776, Number 603 and alike.

If you have never stepped foot in New Hampshire but need a word to describe it, in case you want to impress your friends at a party, STARK!

These leads me to the rest of the randomness and the reason why I feel drawn to these two particular places.

Random Pauper thoughts:

1. Aren’t we all just one attachment away from being a Pauper?

2. Did these numbers linked to granite stone leave someone lonesome?

3. I always want to say, sold my soul to the devil and the devil said to me one word…and that was ‘dead‘.  Where I came up with that thought I’m not sure.  But it attached these persons from the past to me somehow.

4. The gate to the cemetery is always closed.  Always, always, always, the door is shut.  The land is immaculately cared for.  Yet, it appears, two miles in, that no one ever comes around.  When I leave I make a point to open the gate.  Just in case some resident from within wants to take a walk.

5. Morbidity aside, a sense of renewal overcomes the searcher of the finer things while walking on a dreary spring day down a dead-end trail to a dead-end place of rest…for all of eternity.  I get giddy and happy that these people are who I’ve come to visit.  There is no religion shared among any of us for this is our thought on that:

…not a big fan of organized anything…it tends to ruin the imagination…

I took pictures.  As I always do.  My dogs romping and playing and acknowledging these passed by patrons of another century.  My grandmother had been raised by nuns in an orphanage in Worcester.  My spouse had been confined by the state for her cognitive years due to bad behavior no one wanted to deal with.

Personally, I’m not allowed to touch on my family’s history for the secrets run deep.  However, I wonder, how different I am from those who fall into the following ramification:

‘It hurts me to hear the tone in which the poor are condemned as “shiftless” or “having a pauper spirit”, just as it would if a crowd mocked at a child for it’s weakness, or laughed at a lame man because he could not run or a blind man because he stumbled.’

-Albion Fellows Bacon: U.S. social workers and housing reform advocate

To live simply amongst these persons or perhaps those who pass us by at work or at play?   The man or woman riding a bike in three inches or snow with all they own strapped onto their back.  I choose to live as simply as possible.  I believe it is how it should be…life in moderation leave a good taste in everyone’s thoughts and as little impact on bad thoughts as possible.

Therefore, I live as a pretend pauper perhaps.  Not so much by choice as by the sense of belonging-ness that living with little can bring.

tell me dear, Are you lonesome tonight?

 

Albion Fellows Bacon (1865–1933), U.S. social worker and housing reform advocate.
Read more at http://quotes.dictionary.com/It_hurts_me_to_hear_the_tone_in#phl4qg3pgYomaYzO.99
Albion Fellows Bacon (1865–1933), U.S. social worker and housing reform advocate.
Read more at http://quotes.dictionary.com/It_hurts_me_to_hear_the_tone_in#phl4qg3pgYomaYzO.99
It hurts me to hear the tone in which the poor are condemned as “shiftless,” or “having a pauper spirit,” just as it would if a crowd mocked at a child for its weakness, or laughed at a lame man because he could not run, or a blind man because he stumbled.
Read more at http://quotes.dictionary.com/It_hurts_me_to_hear_the_tone_in#phl4qg3pgYomaYzO.99
It hurts me to hear the tone in which the poor are condemned as “shiftless,” or “having a pauper spirit,” just as it would if a crowd mocked at a child for its weakness, or laughed at a lame man because he could not run, or a blind man because he stumbled.
Read more at http://quotes.dictionary.com/It_hurts_me_to_hear_the_tone_in#phl4qg3pgYomaYzO.99
It hurts me to hear the tone in which the poor are condemned as “shiftless,” or “having a pauper spirit,” just as it would if a crowd mocked at a child for its weakness, or laughed at a lame man because he could not run, or a blind man because he stumbled.
Read more at http://quotes.dictionary.com/It_hurts_me_to_hear_the_tone_in#phl4qg3pgYomaYzO.99