Green riding hood

 Who is that I see walking in these woods... why it's Little Green Riding Hood....Think I ought to walk with you to grandma's home....Cause those wolves gonna smell those brownies shown....

Before

 Before the way fades

Our pathway, once so clear, so evident, fades, we wander, in shadow, in faith of light beyond.

The fear of God

 The Fear Of God

Robert Frost...

If you should rise from Nowhere up to Somewhere,

From being No one up to being Someone,

Be sure to keep repeating to yourself

You owe it to an arbitrary god

Whose mercy to you rather than to others

Won't bear too critical examination.

Stay unassuming. If for lack of license

To wear the uniform of who you are.

You should be tempted to make up for it

In a subordinating look or tone,

Beware of coming too much to the surface

And using for apparel what was meant

To be the curtain of the inmost soul.

The boot

 Idiocy

I do these things periodically 

Like go boot less through

The woods

Leave offerings along the way

Say things that make 

Sensibly sensitive ears burn

Get accused of being cruel

And certainly not funny

It's great 

This idiocy and 

Greater yet

Uncovering 

Idiocy

Lullaby

 The sound of lullaby 

If only you sing

With your voice

I am unable to get

Through

So difficult to

Understand

This lullaby land.

Waltzing with Camellia

 Camellia 

By John Clare 

For no discernible reason I want to swirl

And in a great effort to

maintain control

I stand stoic before this

Dancing girl

And still waltz away within my soul.

The silence of the stars

 My best Acquaintances are those

With Whom I spoke no Word-

The Stars that stated come to Town

Esteemed Me never rude

Although to their Celestial Call

I failed to make reply-

My constant-reverential Face

Sufficient Courtesy.

Emily Dickinson

With Hughes

 Take Your Heaven further on-

This-to Heaven divine Has gone-

Had You earlier blundered in

Possibly, e’en You had seen

An Eternity-put on-

Now-to ring a Door beyond

Is the utmost of Your Hand-

To the Skies-apologize-

Nearer this sufferer polite-

Dressed to meet You-

See-in White!

Emily Dickinson 

With Bob 

ET York

Days of Thespians past

 Days of Thespians Past

john clare stokes

Long past the forgotten lines

Well beyond the curtain call

From the bed and down the hall

To sit and mutter from Macbeth

Is this the end of Thespians

In some woodland sparse

Before the fireless hearth

From nostrils smoke leaking

Mute the cheers ringing flee

Mock the tongue tied stammer

Yet do I fear thy nature

Is this a dagger I see before me?

Nought's had, all's spent

Where our desire is got without content;

Tis safer to be that which we destroy

Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.

3 men in a boat

 Courts of Coot

In the biting humidified Florida cold, behind me through the cypress came the loud thunder of the shotgun, then the flurry of birds overhead. It wasn't long before the rub a dub three boys in a boat came puttering past. I was ready and aimed to shoot them.

Well versed

 The need of being well versed in country things

Robert Frost.

The house had gone to bring again

To the midnight sky a sunset glow.

Now the chimney was all of the house that stood,

Like a pistil after the petals go.

The barn opposed across the way,

That would have joined the house in flame

Had it been the will of the wind, was left

To bear forsaken the place's name.

No more it opened with all one end

For teams that came by the stony road

To drum on the floor with scurrying hoofs

And brush the mow with the summer load.

The birds that came to it through the air

At broken windows flew out and in,

Their murmur more like the sigh we sigh

From too much dwelling on what has been.

Yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf,

And the aged elm, though touched with fire;

And the dry pump flung up an awkward arm;

And the fence post carried a strand of wire.

For them there was really nothing sad.

But though they rejoiced in the nest they kept,

One had to be versed in country things

Not to believe the phoebes wept.

A mothers love

 The mothers love

Woodlands 2009

Often we think how mamma never tired

Of telling of the day I phoned her in

Crawfordville to tell her Melanie and

I were marrying. It was probably the only time the Methodist preachers wife danced. 

I truly think her love for Melanie outranks mine. I cannot tell the times she'd have the flowers ordered for me, all in my name.

If it all to an end came crashing

It would not have been in vain

For the love it gave Meme and Melanie 

Woodlands Rehabilitation