Woolworth Days


Had it been any somber inclination…

More mist would fall.

Yet, the impoverished ground…

Began it transcendence to hell.

Long before only one wish fell down the stoned well.


Tell me one last time of love.

Tell me one last spoken verse…

Of what you had intended to do.

How red had been traded for blue.

When endless days encompassed in velvet touches of all that is new.

Fell victim to guile…

And, burning house residue.

Pine board days of Revelations, Kings and Saints.

Philosophers of manikin’s, in modern ways.

Bring back Woolworth times.

Dime store family albums caressed in similar minds.

All Polaroids shrouded in a love unkind.

I want you back.

As I sip a decade’s resin of breakfast tea.

For as the minutes become yesterday.

There is still…

So much left to question.

So much left to say.





Distance the Inner Quarrel

Continuing to Learn the things I could never Apply:




I had heard…

everything is relative…

After years of consideration…

My rebuttal is the following…

but is always up for debate, change and forever a metamorphosis of who and what life is about…

‘It is not the distance that beckons the quarrel. It is the inner quarrel that becomes the distance we place upon ourselves. ‘