Paltry Antidotes

As if, discovered slightly crooked, within its place, an apprehension.

Eggshells in false forests

children milling about unharmed by squatters,

resin ovals hung on limbs yet to be formed,


crosses piercing the soggy bottom turf, of what used to be.

With this dust, resolutions fade, speck by contemplative speck.

Sometimes I am pushed, stubbornly, to loose sight of…auld lang syne

Sometimes blanketed by here and there…

Often I awaken to missing a mother’s guiding a hand…

a gesture of charity, debilitated or reflectively sublime.

Once upon a village, swaddled in quilts of yesteryear…

Once an angel with spurs

A voice only the living could hear.

Soon to be a blackout doused by fabricated flowers.

A small holiday growing smaller…as the future appears.

Complete, paltry entombed antidotes…consigned by my greatest fear.

Each one an affection for weariness

an invisible affliction

all among the petunias that had crimsoned your cheeks…so near.




the Contempt of a Father

A promising death is only for the descent.  In the dwelling of youth…it can transpire as…heaven sent.

No words can portray…Faded figures of dismay.  Knives wielded and the blood of innocents only pictorial for display.

Desolate in the scene of a heart.  A woman, a man, a child…within a nowhere land.  Endings, that begin with no start.

On the sunlit days.  Where one would speculate on times past.  Increments of incidents…That go on for generations who live near to a darkened cast.

The young are isolated, upon rare moments of ill will.  Subjects to unknown origin’s jagged pills.

To die a difficult and disturbing demise.  Over and over, a child’s reprise.


Curiosity’s Oddity


In the midst of thunderous gale.

A noose is loosened.

Dislodged from a ceiling.

Where the lead is chipping and peeling.


Stones, previously marked with similar name.

A pastime of clientele hanging on shame.

The obliged have always wondered.

Can you cremate pain?

Thus, hold onto dignified days,

and their remains.


A participant of curiosity’s oddity.

I, too, have queried…

What remains of the day?


All the protocol that stands in the way.


To The Past


Wondrous and awful are thy silent halls,

O kingdom of the past!

There lie the bygone ages in their palls,

Guarded by shadows vast;

There all is hushed and breathless,

Save when some image of old error falls

Earth worshiped once as deathless.

And, if sometimes a moaning wander-eth

From out thy desolate halls,

If some grim shadow of thy living death

Across our sunshine falls

And, scares the world to error,

The eternal life sends forth melodious breath

To chase the misty terror.

  • Lowell river-6


Within a tryst, beginning with a cold January morn, came the madness in infant form..

Course, that was long before anything called, love, came along.

Imagine no words exchanged.

No consequences…said.

Luminous, padded, cells.

For dirty deeds, such as these.

And, so, decades later, spawned lunacy takes intervention as a lover.

No accounting for the past…

It is simply a chained window to crime doused with periods of respite.

Mania, is but a word for fateful days.

Eras long ago.

Increments of a psychosomatic weekend pass.