How To Store Poetic Thoughts

In an

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 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.imageedit_3_3337571397

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.

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Tower of Towanda

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There is no doubt to what I had seen.

It came to me,

as if it were a dream.

A wise old, mage.

Smiled and greeted me without disdain.

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I sat and waited.

Waited and rested.

Prone to any word of worthy, I may hear.

Licking my flaws by the jubilant light of day.

Bathing in the fervor of self-satisfaction.

This visionary,

was obviously…

no mere roadside attraction.

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As life will,

my illumination,

the luminary,

went from rose to thorn.

It would that my presence had become an unwelcome mat…

bothersome and very worn.

There is no place of rest,

more uncomfortable,

as,

lying near a cat who has been put upon.

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Reticent Rubble

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The War and the Peace…wash over me.

Remote and distant…I am not what I appear to be.
Sages and Mages and Philosophers and such…
have come here.
Their guile has spoken to the river’s run wild.
Yet, alone, one by one, they perch…
And, I am not in their final shrewd search.
Granite solid, wet and understated and an overgrown child.
Civilizations have gone astray inspite of my style.
War and Peace have come to my shore.
Searching for an easy door.
Missing the reticent rubble…looking for the golden ore.

Sober for a Day

Sipping from a toxic cup of jealousy, my hand shakes from the reverie.

I remember her words of observance,

as if only yesterday,

‘look me in the eye when you lie to me.’

Guess it didn’t matter who was wrong or right.

Could never hold a drunken gaze.

Always lost for fright of sight.

With the illusion of not wanting to let go,

always holding me down.

Forever ,searching my ‘maybe’ wilderness.

History has plagued me with misguided adventures.

Searching for a way out of donut holes.

Just another Robin Hood fishing for treasure without a pole.

My glance is so much different today than yesterday.

With a litany of laundry lists.

Inventories of fallen angels.

There is never an end to lies…webbed

and,

tangled.

Hence, my sight not so finely aged.

To insist my victims believe I am a sober sage.