Mother Earth Has Called

The great deceiver?  These platelets of ice…leading me to believe ‘if I’ve stepped there once…I can step there twice!’

In the midst of the fall, hanging vaguely onto drawing myself near to dear.

All I hear is, Mother Earth calling me…

‘I am the the greatest magician of them all.  One will never be able to stand on all that is borrowed.’

Mother’s History

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Mother’s history, no mater how hysterical…entrenches me.

I despair in the here-say.

The delight of what could be.

How long the sagging eyelid of clouds over a no name mountain?

How long the gentle placement of boulder over stone…

Gritty granite towel drying ancient flora…and, elderly fauna.

What has brought you and I here?

Why do you insist on repair?

Mother’s history makes a mockery of my vanity…

of the human in me.

And, yet her charm continues to conceive.

Dying Breed


She had been old.  She was on the threshold of dying.  And, still vanity had the best of him…her companion.  One leg lame, yet, her loyalty has never waned.

Together with their his and her gait…a menacing, comical stride.  The couple could be spotted for miles and miles and miles.

Her human bristles upon the touch of even the most…common hand.  A permanent scowl below his white on gray mustache.  But on a good day.  When no one is looking.  His senior companion can lean slightly in for support and a pat.  And…a faint curl of pride hidden behind the frowning whiskers magically appears.

The old man’s friend knows it is time that she go.  She has prepared for years.  Ready and able to cross that bridge.  At this part in the road…she will go.  She has taught the old man…as much as, he’ll ever know.

The old grizzled gal, from a pup to adulthood, has always had Moxie…Hence the name.  Once wild and woolly.  Her coat is now coarse.  Her sight, a bit less.

With foggy eyes.  She glances to her companion and thinks,

‘Time to teach this old guy…a new trick.’

Lessons have never been easy to impart.  The old man has always worn his surliness like a faded flannel vest; up close and tight fitting.

Vanity has it’s place.  Moxie has owned it like the kindled kindness upon her face.  Jowls tucked up and in…Moxie wears loyalty with a grin.

Today will be the day.  Her last lesson?

Showing the old man that letting her go…Does not mean they will never see each other again.

Bruised Impressions

Ran vagary over and over.

As if,

smitten by a nemesis of a four-leaf clover.

There is no supremacy here, there or…anywhere.

We all are diminished by the same bed of rock.

No matter the choice.

No matter the manner in which we leave a bruised impression.

Each to their own.

Put to rest by the same hand.

Only our vanity chooses…

Woman or man.

Herding the Sheep

Hadn’t always been a need to flail about.

Not far from home.

Just remote enough,

to go it alone.


Peril clung to hanging flaxen rope.

Ram and rod.

Tusk and bone.

Sheepishly, the somber slates called for more.


Misshapen, hap hazard, no bare-feet.

What a dwelling?

Deposits of life gone by.

I turn away as if, shy.


The welfare of woolpacks seemed… hung upon in jeopardy.

Horns and scorns.

Orphanages of beast…herded without care.

Remote justification of arrogance.

Vainglory, skinned and bare.