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The wrecking ball long since
     demolished boyhood house zen
located at 324 Level Road,
     a once rural residence,
     which soulful yen
I called home
     since February 28th, 1968, when

Boyce and Harriet Harris
     (my octogenarian
     widower father, a transplanted urban
cowpoke father, and late outskirts
     of poker flats mother) than
experienced livingsocial in the country,

      cuz aforesaid domain didst span,
and encompass,
     one hundred plus acre estate
     listed in national register
     as "Glen Elm", where ran
woodland surrounding a golden pond

     favored by Canadian Geese,
     but under game plan
of commercial developer Donald Neilson
     (a tall lumbering
     "all business no play doh" man

blueprints drafted for
     an army of vinyl city
     exemplifying Little boxes
     on the hillside ditty
Little boxes made of ticky tacky...gritty
material upending wildlife refuge,
     ah...what a pity

yet, impossible to stop industrialization,
     the das capital way
spurring thy preferential longing
     for nature preservation oye vey,
and to make a million bucks in USA

if land left off limits
     for propertied class today
then in the near future,
     an aggressive builder will sashay

confirming prophecy    
     scooping up gobs of profit
     out maneuvering competition
     analogous to a marathon relay
race quickly witnessing little boxes
     to sprout all the same

     by construction workers,
     who hammer away,
nailing steady income,
     viz all work and no play,
who maxim eyes

     American middle class dream
     asper buying affordable home
     after acquiring a mortgage to outlay
their limited choice sans, may
be there's a green one and a pink one

and a blue one and yellow one, how zing
free enterprise, and they're
     all made out of ticky tacky
     held together on a wing
and prayer they all look

     just the same ring
with a round of row zees
     awash manicured lawns
     with generic grass seed
     that doth spring

to life with synthesized,
(yet deadly) chemicals meant
     to guarantee wrest
ting control might and subdue
     so nature forced

     to become nsync from in vest
ment plot purchase
     as proving grounds to test
a money bagged well paid
     laborer at leisure time

sprawled asleep in comfy hammock
     a much needed self deserved rest
whereat successful proof
     evinces "American dream"

     no matter quest
necessitates becoming linkedin
     with fast paced lifestyle
     attendant ulcer inducing "pest"
keeping up appearances,

     where younglings nest
scolding woe begotten kith
     if flawless grounds get messed
by clod hopping kids and/or smart pets
     upsetting calculus figuring formula

     determining trigonometric
     landscaping tangential
     to maintaining perfectly
     squared off turf especially lest
the neighbors cease becoming hospitable
     and stop offering gold plated invitations
     to such honorable humble guest.
Rogue Jul 2017
Her life is a melody,
an etude of melancholy
Her wrist is a violin,
where marks of practice make its toll
Her bow is a blade
sliding it deep and hard
until the notes,
colored with crimson red
oozes out

Tonight, she made up her mind
She will end the etude
that she composed all her life

The restroom is her stage,
her shadow is her audience
She will play her violin
until the last note drops
10-56 is a police code for suicide
Leticia JL Sims Jul 2016
Crusty scabs the only things left
and
The thoughts that stayed deep in her head
The only thing left
Soon the scabs would heal
And
Soon they would turn into scars
And
Soon the thoughts that were deep in her head would go away
Soon enough things will change
Soon enough
She wont think about the things that hurt her so much
Soon enough
She will be fine..
Soon enough she will not want to die
Soon enough
It will  just take some time

— The End —