Meeting House Hill

Twigs and things

Open palm ferns and town pound in the spring

I am a braggart, beggar for distraction

Rainbow pinwheels refusing to remain still and sunsets over a lazy hill

Let me drink you in and always be full

These worries I carry like a hungry dog in search of a bone

These worries are in need of clean fill

Congregations up on Meeting House Hill

Let me drink you in and always be full

What to do with a 15 year old…18 pound, Cat

I sit at a keyboard with no letters.

I light a cigarette.

I stare at the venomous screen.

So much to say.

So little pushes through.

So far, I am in the…in-between.

Strong as my back is…built upon years of slaying dragons and their flies.

Far as my gaze can reach…daytime bats, the blue-jays, frolic and distort all that I wish to see.

And, of course, the pitter-patter of a fifteen year old, eighteen pound cat, he knows exactly where my mind is at.

He taunts me like a catholic mother.

Guilt ridden, I am side tracked…insight, will never just hover.

What a show to behold!

Therefore, I always embrace it.

For it is with certainty, recollections will fade…imagery will be less bold.

Walking in Sharp Sand

An inter-sanctum where I live…
not for you
or
you
or
you
to forgive.
Platitudes and platitudes of discourse
I cringe, though not a one will know
The gifts you’ve given come with an interpreter’s silent force.

Hell’s yard sale from below.

One that marks another in brotherly love of those who remain…
with often a valedictorian refrain

I could hold your hands from outside the wired gate
When those above us reflect on human quakes.

To you,
to others,
I am but a precious mistake

Lying and Dying

There are lines to this scarcity.

Hidden obstacles filled with joyless doubt.

Now that I am in…the dead air is coming out!

A covert world we all must go thru…

and, the question remains…

‘Will I have the courage to go without you?’

The grass beaded with dew and the…aromatic earth…

does not quench my soul as it used to.

Lying and dying have become art forms.

A certain style giving unto…laughing…crying.

Courage in the blinding light of day can whisk the unthinkable webs away.

Nonetheless, the night…with its sporadic fits of sleep…

Still begs for valor’s retreat.

Natural Drunkard

This constant search and agreement that the road carries on.

This bond with nature is bittersweet.

A constant gnawing.

A scratching at an evergreen door.

And, the earth fine as elderberry wine.

Another indulgence that never quite wets…my lips.

Such a drunkard am I!

I drink in the rainbow of flavors with a guzzle…not a sip.

An inebriated understanding…I am so small.

Mother Nature, the only beverage I drink in.

A seduction to which it is certain…I will fall.