Scattered birch bones about the way…
Classics bellow below.
Sometimes I talk to the angels.
They appear as dust on the rays of the sun.
‘No, no, sweetheart your pilgrimage has just begun.’
And, though, my footing grabs at my destiny…
Strangely, strange, it is the wilderness that sets my spirit free.
A dare, one would say.
As the winged mystique call those that wander to the way…
And, though the hike runs on empty.
The serenity symphony tempts and provokes me.
The eyes of forest know…
I do not see all there is…
all there is to know.
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 than again, you’ve always gave me the inclement slip.
What happens when we cannot levitate any longer.
For when that disability begins,
it is our past playing hide and seek.
What happens when our memories of seesaw’s and mechanical pony’s come crashing down,
in an around our bare, to all, feet.
Only to be relinquished by a present we will not believe.
How soon to the realization that we are all approaching something…
we are leaving it behind.
Definition of Levity:
High in spirit. Lightness of soul
‘Heed the screams.’
Flee the fall.
The spindly woods, tell all.
At first sight,
I had been blissfully, unaware.
Then within a moment’s hesitation,
one lone oak became a pair.
For miles, the blistering winds had admonished an earthy speech…
in my muffled ear.
I only listened for the cautions they longed for me to hear.
All surrounding sounds and, alike,
While my wishes were the wind-swept tress…
The ground rumbled…stay humble.
abandoned garage over on River road.
In a left alone box…I keep the sacred thoughts.
In an upholstered chair from 1972, all velour and static, covered in snow.
That is where make-believe takes a seat.
It is where poetry goes.
Around about, midday, most days, when the sun quenches the sky.
I take time out to visit a graveyard Sage made of stone and bone.
To amend the playful wrongs…make them…right.
Everyday…a fortunate spirit on an infinite flight.