I don't believe that any body on this site is aware of my recent diagnosis of Huntington Disease and I wanted to get the chance to let  all of you guys know and even though it has been a while since I have written anything new I still wanted to share it with you guys. I will let you guys know more as things progress but if you have any questions to ask about it just shoot me a message in this post and I will try to answer them as honestly as possible. I have come to enjoy your poetry and I have appreciated any positive comments you have left on my poetry too so I at least wanted to give you guys the heads up about it and where I am at with it.

I'm there,
an old portrait hanging on the wall
in need of a good dusting--past worthy
of restoration

passers-by will now and then pause
(more then than now), and wonder what my
two grey eyes saw, what my folded hands held,
what words came from my pursed lips

then came you, all dozen years of you:
maybe you liked old oils; maybe you were bored;
but you stopped, you ate a plump pear
while gazing

you squinted to see the signature
of the one who created me, though somehow
you knew there was but one creator
who gifted all brushes

you read the brass plaque
which summed up my life--three names and
eight digits, the last four a score before you were born
then you closed your young eyes

because you knew mine were closed
despite the painting's vain attempt to keep them open  
and you imagined you were asleep, waiting for a new sun,
or for another curious soul to stroll by

one who would take the time to look
and, like you, wonder, who I was, and why I was draped on this wall,
in this quiet hall, where you stood, pear in hand, finding color,
light, in my untold story

judicious July, two inches,
auspicious August, three; September sunk to half
an inch, but leaped to record heat for the month

October first, he was at the bank,
hat in hand and pride somewhere deep inside,
after he swallowed it two droughts ago

the banker would know, this time
he would not bother to ask--the reaping now
would be from blood, not soil

the blood of his ancestors
who fed a nation, anonymous plodders who plowed
the sod where they were now buried

he was the last; he would have to move fast
to get dollars for his dirt, before the loans came due,
before the wife, the children knew

they would soon be town dwellers--that October
would be the month "Farm For Sale" signs would hang from
his fences like mocking scoreboards

and the month he would feel like
he had drowned in drought, leaving no doubt
he had failed his father, and his sons