arboreal
capitulation
to the last saw;
just lying there,
rusting and dull,
a senile serial killer.

a dirt water droplet
circlestalks the sun
like a vulture.


wild flowers
split the concrete
like jackhammers and
the vines hang low
over city streets,
while unmaintained
botanical gardens
shrivel and decay,
breeding mushy immensities.

bears hibernate in subways
and deer flock in herds
and oh, the birds..
the birds.

spiders hang webs
from ancient clock towers
while moth returns
to chasing moon.

dams crumble,
the water flows,
sea reclaims the shore.

but the
eldest
trees
still weep
when memory pains,
and so surrender
to the saw,
however harmless
out of hand.

Ice and salt crunch 'neath my boots as I walk along an unmaintained sidewalk. In the distance, blue lights flash and snow removal vehicles make an otherwise quiet night, loud. I'm doing a little removal of my own. Surplus thoughts, excess; though, they go without sound into oblivions ever-expanding jaws, voiding me of resentment and regret. Leaving acres of empty field to fill

I circle the block, double back. I take in the cool night air and filter it through tired lungs, one deep calculated breath at a time. Tightening my grip, fingernails to palm. I let go, release. Upon inspection, there is no blood. There is no guilt in the belly of my mind. The darkness is inviting. The snow not nearly as blinding without the Suns reflection. The Moon, though modest in nature, and in comparison to that of it's sister, paints itself on the water top. Globes of light illuminate the path along the canal. The blue lights still flashing remotely in the distance. I can see clearer now.

I miss alot of things to complete myself,
A bookshelf is not enough to describe them,
My heart's experience is  still young to say i know me better.
My mind is not tired of searching.


I often get angry at myself for doing this or that,
I don't appreciate myself when I win
A sucker at love I am,
Yes the winner takes it all but whatever.


This journey to self has taken  me a lifetime,
It's some road I have left unmaintained,
I will not make it ******* myself,
I will find a way here...

His face,

Like a scrapbook.

Past years,

Patchwork and visible.

The lines on his face,

Mimic puzzle pieces.

They meld years of pain and ecstasy.

Matured,

Sage strands of grey hair -

Mingle with the onyx.

Hands, so storied and weathered,

Like an old unmaintained brick wall,

Crumbling....yet strong !

Lips...

Capable of speaking words and stories...

Enslaving and captivating my audience.

A patchwork of 50 years I am,

Hardened and yet softened..

Confused yet filled with clarity.

If I were "colored by numbers 1-100 "...

You'd be up to 50.

I'm simply art that has yet to be finished.

A scrapbook that awaits more memories....

A painting that awaits its next hue.

I dare ya to -

Grab a brush.....?

For me, this has only existed in time, not space.
A time when the words in my mind echo the advice I give with love-
"Be kind to yourself."
"Stand tall, chin up."
"Things will get better."
It is a time when I feel peace in all the parts of my body
That are usually tense like an unmaintained machine,
Or when I take a deep breath,
And upon exhale I melt into a puddle of rest-
Not in defeat,
But in comfort.

I can't die with black toenails
The sock fluff, in the corners
That sit waiting to shock the world
I can't die with a hairy *****
Looking like a sleeping Chewbacka 
Unmaintained and with musk 
I can't die with crusty sleepy eye
The kind you forget
When you've not washed your face
Before walking the dog
You can....
Well, most of you
Who cares what the mortician thinks? 
Well I surey do
The mortician is my sister 
If you were me
You'd care too.

A forest clearing untouched for decades on private land.
We were there looking at clouds when I first reached out  to take
your hand.
Where all the pure white fathers came from I'll never know.
So wonderous wafting and whirling. They did put on
a show.
Honeysuckle in bloom and sounds of  gurgling stream.
When I look back on it all now it seems like a dream within
a dream.

Near the borders of the St. Lawrence river there are towns that seem frozen in time. Stuck in stillness and silence knee high flowers exploding through the center of main street.
I can still see and smell them,
and that scene is sweet.
So pure and healthy .
Gone are  the poor
same as the wealthy.

Abandoned schools not even boarded up. No cars no  people. No one for miles.
Just me and the sunshine  my guide( a local)  and smiles.
The diverted water still crushing its way through some strange and vast concrete construction  designed  to serve some forgotten purpose. Now just rife for play.
We stay and it makes our day.
Functioning , apparently unmaintained. Like everyone just disappeared except they took everything with them but the crayfish
who now dance and sing.

Nature reclaiming so certain and so fast
making meaningless those things we thought were  "built to last".
The sky bluer than any painting.

We walk on paths with gravel and dirt,
Unmaintained roads, broken street lights.
Some say it’s noisy, a bit rough,
Uncivilized, maybe. But it’s where we started.

Formosa was a quick touch
A break,
A reality check.
The world felt wide, unburdened, free.

It reminded me:
We’re still far from where we should be.
How things can move so efficiently
Faster progress,
More space to explore,
More chances to move forward.

While being there...
and in the absence of a common language most of the time
a new kind of patience surfaced.
Body language filled in the blanks.
We adapted.
They extended patience and hospitality.

And somewhere in that quiet back-and-forth,
you realize
even with all the differences,
people can still find ways to coexist.


Traveling with the team

Traveling with people is tough.
Different tastes, expectations, and desires.
Sometimes one moves ahead,
or maybe it’s just organized chaos
sometimes just to prove a point.

But with this team, it’s different.
Time, patience, assurance, and care are felt.
Opinions and health matter.
You really feel they’re with you
even with everyone’s differences.

As I packed my bags and looked back,
those moments shared and explored
shifted something,
and it will be one of those “multo”
one will always want.

The things experienced there
are hoped to be experienced back in PH

Where dirt-painted shoes
will now be all-white sneakers,
working street lights,
wide pavements,
well-mannered, civilized people.

Formosa was one thing,
and above all,
it captured a part of my bucket list.

I thank God for the gift of grit, patience, and perseverance,
and above all, for the opportunity to make a difference
and be part of the Stash family.

To more travels and chaotic adventures
Short but life-changing,
Costly but worth it.