Under the Bridge

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Ensconced under the bridge in makeshift shelters of salvaged rusty metal
like rolling stones that gather no moss

No roots
Free
Carefree
Avoiding responsibility

Nearby moss appears as an innovator
attached to buttresses supporting the weight of the world above

Rooted
Burdened
Sad
Accountable

The moss appears to
challenge the rust
to stay alive and avoid immobility

 

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Looking for Burt’s Bees

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Scattered yet organized
among the crag and concrete.
There has to be a story among the debris.

Dumped from despair?

Flung in frustration?

Scattered in silliness?

The collection not yet worn enough
to become a castoff for those in transition.

Sharpie
Bic
Crest
Fischer
Goody
Craftsman
SanDisk

Metal not rusted
Ink pens not dried
Toothpaste not emptied
Plastic not stretched

A closer inspection reveals
a scattering of true trash – cigarette butts and broken acorns –
parts of wholes not present.

Contemplation of collecting the display
dismissed because
there is no coconut and pear balm –
necessary as the days become colder and blustery.

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Morning Walk

clock

Days get shorter
Overnight darkness lingers longer

Walking at the usual time
Now dark:30

Days, in fact, seem never to begin
Nature’s clock calibrated to
time not matched by the light

Walking at the usual time
Still dark:30

Over and under bridges
Along the boardwalk
Beside the open theatre

Morning greetings from
Robert, Charles, James
Rosemary and Sarah

Days, in fact, seem never to end
Homeless clocks calibrated to
time not found in the light

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On the Riverwalk

wall

Locked eyes
Worn reluctant brown and early morning blue
She dared him to continue with his chosen task
His freedom reduced to this –
Finding relief between the evergreen and brick

Locked eyes
Tired reluctant brown and early morning blue
She accepts his need but requests patience
He acknowledges the request with a slight nod
And turns his tired brown eyes to the oleander shrub

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What the Heck

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For so long
she’d been on the straight and narrow –
Carefully keeping to the right of
the double yellow lines.
Solid success for the most part.

Now, at 60, the road ahead
has a distinct –
not to be ignored curve.

What the heck – live a beautiful life –
Why wait until the proper moment?

Despite her hesitation,
she presses on
and meets the curve with aplomb –
speeding full on
into her golden years –
Her head thrown back
as gales of laughter and
her perfect life
are tossed about as the wind
completely ignores the solid lines
meant to contain the coloring of her days.

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Fire Ants are the Devil

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Broadcast granules do absolutely no good –
not delivering death as Bengal’s powder could.

Devil ants – worse than Fibonacci rabbits –
set world records in their multiplying habits.

Armed with a round container of Ultra Dust x2
she creeps lightly across the fast-fading dew.

A sprinkle here
A sprinkle there

Hills are covered in a light dusting like new-fallen snow –
those fire-red ants tunnel wildly around and never know!

Each morning she will continue to persevere
until, at last, there are no more angry ants here.

 

 

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After the Storm

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Rushing with wild abandon,
muddy brown water
crashes over hidden boulders –
Making crescent waves
reserved naturally for tidal bodies.

Over time and distance,
deposits of debris
create new unhidden boulders –
Skillfully adding nature to concrete

Among the remnants,
purple flowers nestle
precariously in fragile dirt (and litter) –
As they wait for the next
rush of untamed water (or wind)
to move them further downstream.

 

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