That road to where

Is no way home,

As you roam

Through the open of a broken gate

And wait.

A pause of flicker light

Dances shadows in flight

Across the space

Of the old gray floor

Where once,

There was a door.

Where no new feet have walked

Nor voices talked

Of ordinary times

And little things.

Like Lilac Spring,

An ephemeral thing.

A hot Summer’s,  late night fling

Under stormy strife

On the front porch swing.

The hall in Fall

With leaves blown in.

Frozen glass in Winter’s icy ring.

In the modes of life.

No voices talk

In your silent walk,

Making echoes in a ghost’s lock

Of memory.

Up the stairs


Peeling paper

Of garden roses,

In a woman’s caper

Through an imaginary garden of joy.

That banister of a child’s slide

Wobbles  weak now,

Broken with a family’s pride.

You  wonder how.

Tell me home is in the attic,

Tucked away spirits

In trunks of dust,

Locked with latches of deep red rust

All the treasures of wonder lust.

Sepia captures of Bestefar

Wondering poet, sailor and gypsy

Leaving home,  Bestemoer,

Who grew crazed at  every start—-

As she secretly sipped,

Growing tipsy

At the end of day.

Over the window pane

Sun rot lace,


In a rain

Of ruin

Under the eves.

In the back near the rack

Of brittle clothes,

God only knows

Who dropped that old coin.

Tarnished,  silver-dollar lost—-

Ya have to smile.

It’s value cost

A shiny penny pile.

There is no guile

In the hope

Of this dreamy interlope.

It’s late past due.

And the broke

Of this old place

Marches along in it’s

Fading pace.

Its fate,

Just a broken gate,

And open door

Where no one lives no more.


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