Backwoods

farmhouse by the side of the road

dogs loved and lost

sumac fading to rose

where have you been?

what have you been told?

a warm rain dribbles on my mountain pained skin

alerting me…simplicity must come around again

there has been no shame to the backroads, traveled from within

lost in the wandering towards autumn’s color

reminds me of the hot touch of sun on cotton

have I traveled so far that there maybe a rejection of nature’s law

or, is there possibility that I can wait until spring’s thaw?

Breaking the Back of Pavement

Little hut in the snow…made from wood and all her vices.

I zip up close to the vest…

Only when it is time to leave.

Of the earth…my door of entry requires less shelter from the weather.

A warm hearth draws me near.

hut 1

Breaking the back of pavement…I am back on the beat

Neon walks in as intruder.

Ready to confiscate my light.

Doorways to peep shows whistle out misdeeds.

Hunched away from wordy words…there is not much to be said, when the city is out on display.

The clouds move so swiftly among tall buildings…

It is hard to keep up.

imageedit__3296752031Yet, I do not hurry.

My only harried pace is back to the wooden hut.

Time is Aging

So many shapes, sizes.

Some oblique and detractors.

Some manic from nearing disaster.

Time is aging…rounding off jagged points of view.

Time has become minimal.

Urging my black and white mind with visions basic and new.

Sketchy Indulgence

Restraint by a shaft of evidence.

Captivity…

Not conclusive to ideals.

A melancholy orange…peeled.

Is it  vanity that brings me here?

For every indulgence that tells me, no.

For all the voices that fill an empty village and clutter the soul.

In the belly below a need arises from reflective window.

Such visions of clarity when I ‘cannot see myself as others do.’

Just snippets of what I used to do.

Sketched among the floundering breeze.

Simple recollections not made to appease.

 

Milling About and Mulling It Over

Milling about.

Mulling things over.

Not something I am known for.

But fortunate me.

I haven’t far to go to find basic reverie.

Fur lined logs.

One size, does not fit all.

Plodding about in myths of greener pastures.

Happily unaware of the here…and, hereafter.