Category Archives: Outlaw

The House On Mason Road, In Sandwich, NH

The house on Mason Road

is set in the woods with a dirt driveway.

                                                —Mail box leaning

is the only indication of an entranceway.

Both for the snowplows and visitors.

—One, hopefully will miss—

The other, with blinker on

                                                —will turn in

Around the wooded curve to a clearing

where there, sits a house on Mason Road.

King, Princes, and Queen of the peaceful

Open Fire Tribe, harmoniously reside;

surrounded by pines, hardwoods,

                                                — and one apple tree.

Two Princes protect the entrance

With a bold plastic pink flamingo

                                                —ready to pounce

On imaginary villains who mean to do “good” harm!

Prince Popo? First with a plastic hammer; if the shadow has a cast.

Prince Gavyn? Waits for introductions, ducking once or twice

in the invisible clash… eventually both smile with relief

as they are greeted with the sight of bright  white teeth,

                                                —giving the signal to continue,

to all walk towards the fire

with hugs and handshakes when possible

                                                —Since most of them have their arms full.

Bringing food, twigs, beer, wine, whiskey, and wood

for an evening’s non-occasion meeting of the Fireside Tribe.

Conversation and laughter overtakes everything

as tradition prescribes,

                                                —they put all things,

other than their ancestors,

 And their continued fellowship



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Another NH Winter Stand

Saddle bags filled with crackers and peanut butter.

It was an ambush, waiting in the

foot hills of the White mountains.

The outlaws rode hard and fast,

leaving the criminals in the gritty;

those that were stealing personal values.

Stripping beliefs and belongings,

scouring the landscape

for those cutting a different path,

trying to escape their understanding.


The officials, expecting early retirement,

were waiting for them. They, tired of the ride,

guns loaded with innuendo, censured, embellished,

as sordid as history would allow, opened fire.



The outlaws rode hard and fast

towards something they believed in.

But they knew, tomorrow would never last.

Bushwhacked yesterday, (poor bastards

were trying to veer off a different path.

Heading north, through the Lakes Region),

they were caught in surprise.

Caught! Being alive! Some shot in the back!

 ‘Cause there was no one who could ride by her side

through the volley, under fire, she kept her eye

ahead of their aim. Galloping by “We can shoot back” she said.

Oh crap! Giddy-up!

It’s now, only her and I…


as I was thinking,

stacking wood after splitting it,

for this winter.


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Rectitude 2

Together, let us walk through this day,

leaving behind our past as glorious as it has been

or as tragic as it was;

let us go and find  those things

that should have been. 



Rain In Northumberland Street

Artist: Anya Zinkivskay





Posted by on June 29, 2014 in Beginnings, Outlaw, Philosophy, Prose Poetry, thoughts, Zen


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Visitation Blues: In the Custody key of “G”

[Jump in boy! We’re out of here. Hee Haw seventy-two hours. Whoa, hang on! You gotta get strapped in. Ouch! You little bugger! Don’t bite me again! It’s the law! Now hang on we’re about to leave Dodge.]

 G clef

I remember your Mama when she was young

Long brown hair and eyes of brown

Prettiest’ gal that you’d ever want to greet

Prettiest smile that you’d ever want to meet.

            But we’d play in the sun and played in the rain

            Never understanding what Love really mean’t

            Just playing those games over and over and over, and over again.

So, Jesse Boy, pack up your gear and don’t forget your cat in the hat too!

Papa’s got his bottle and you’ve got new shoes.

We’re heading for the jeep truck, ride’n in the jeep truck,

Getting’ them ole visitation blues.


            Hello Ms. So and so or have you changed your name

            This ole boy is back in town once again

            Don’t call the police or your best friend

            I’ll have back in town as soon as I can.

So, Jesse Boy, pack up your gear and don’t forget your cat in the hat too!

Papa’s got his bottle and you’ve got new shoes.

We’re heading for the jeep truck, ride’n in the jeep truck,

Getting’ them ole visitation blues.


            You want to go to the mountains and sigh in the clouds?

            Unpack our gear and maybe sing out loud?

            No road nor dream will ever be far

            As long as you and I can smile …     at who we are.

So, Jesse Boy, pack up your gear…     G clef


Posted by on January 19, 2014 in Children, Existential, Father, Love, Outlaw, prose, Zen


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A dark wooded night: The Prodigal Ghost

Wind bristling, snow spitting,

urging my heels to push small pine cones

crunching icy pine needles in my foot prints.


Owls hoot! Shadows dart! Dead limbs snap!

Moonlight guides the rising bend.

Boot soles slide on unseen ice.

I regain balance.

Rousted squirrels brightly tick eventide.

The remaining light fades from dusk,

I find myself at the  forest edge

short of distant village lights.


The wind tears through his over-coat

 threads flutter and shred behind him.

Sleet and ice, preceding new-falling snow

quickly glistens  the way.


Dim lights flicker

through the tunnel of a covered bridge.

               He rode hard and fast on the morning he crossed it.

With anger, pain, and impatient with promises,

               he vowed to return without the empty hands

               that gripped the reins of his departure.


Wood smoke waffles in scented  shifting winds

carrying anticipation awaiting  by the wood stove.


Storm steadily  blowing in a white-out slant

stretches the flame of his swaying lamp.


Following  the tracks that he once made;

never looking back  at his worst now,

or, whatever he thought was his best.

Putting my lamp out,

I stamped my feet on the wooden porch floor

and enter the bright warm farmhouse.


In my welcome, I returned from my pockets,

the path I had taken and the good grace

of a dark wooded night.



Posted by on December 15, 2013 in Children, New England, New Hampshire, Outlaw, Poetry, Zen


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A Three Minute Rant

2013 House of Representative Blues

They sit there judging in their immensity

 cheeks without scars,

tee shirts with no visible nipples.

Only their bias

and adherence to laws

 they like

 and those they refuse

to enact.

They are all excited

upholding their own

god’s opinion.


I keep exclaiming,

I am not a criminal,

I am, an out-law

by citizenship.

What do you mean I can’t live here?


you sentence to poverty;

to reconsider my life,

to adjust my out-look

of minimum wage.

 Kicking my ass,

demeaning my life,

demanding, to be as Holy

(or un –holy when necessary)

like you.

To accept everything

you say as truth.

Thumping the bible

or buying ammo

and an automatic rifle.

Oh ya, make that two!


I can’t pay the cost

for my freedom

let alone my incarceration.

How much do I really owe

for this  “Bill” of Rights?

 No unemployment,

less Social Security,

and the county infirmary.

I am unable to say thank you

in this short of time.


You complain that my lower

 middle class

is draining the economy.

You take away our radios,

control the price of television,

diminish our pencils with a power point,

and virtual paper.

You listen and stalk my conversations

to be labeled and graded.

Your economy

is supported through old megaphones,

carried by political liars

that are wired to explode.


Soon, you will have to wash

and fix your own cars,

or, without mechanics,

to neuter miniature barking robots;

eventually unable to trust

the media cooks

to feed  your lovers

and armed surrogates.


You write editorial

letters to yourself.

(Hearing us talk of a revolution

through evolution without chaos.

Disbanding MBAs’ greed,

and their broker institutions

for a lighter more palatable fare

of profit and dreams).


Those who have exhausted

our patience for the need

of more than one home

go off shore.

Not to live,

but to follow their predecessors

who plundered this land

and its settlements,

with lines and displacement;

seeking other impoverished people

to exchange bubble gum and soda

for washing  Mercedes Benzes.


They too will become

A new race for complaint.

Allowing them to rent

slums and live

the illusionary American advertising. 

 Oppressed as a new class

with white bread and injected meat;

with enough chemical protein

to keep them working.

You will import them

until they bleed,

and that’s  just down the street.


Politicians? Dead puppets

on wealthy life-support strings,

unable to tax them

as, they sap

and suck out

“health care whores”

 living on government crackers

and block cheese.


Dear editor,

Let me die,

let me freeze,

shoot me if you please.

It will be cost-effective

and less to feed!

And, besides,

there is more out there,

oh ya,

for the taking! Yup, for free.


Yours, Gravely

C. U. Later



Posted by on October 27, 2013 in AARP, Mill Street, Outlaw, Poetry, Politics, religion, unemployed


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We Still Can’t Find The Words

World Peace

 “…All we are saying Is give peace a chance.”

                                                               John Lennon

 A thousand devils dancing on a pinhead twirling, almost falling,

catching each other in sizzling embrace. Winking, hooting, and hollering

celebrating the death of common sense with un-precedent disgrace.


“Needle threading cloth. A suture for a dressing.

 In and out, out and in. A thimble on the thumb.

 A thimble on the index. Another zero sum.”


Suicide bombers! Soft targets! Murder of children!

Children murder parents! Prophets poison followers!

Followers assassinate prophets! Sentences punctuated with gunshot!

Where are the archangels and cherubims?

Where is my Father’s Catcher in the Rye?

Where is the Lord of the dance?

Where is that Spark that ignites the lullaby of Peace?


We can sing the song, John, 

winking, hooting, and hollering.

But, we still can’t find the words.


I have taken the liberty of adding these two links in remembrance of a 1969 occasion



A special thank you for Helena, Kay Salady, Michelle, and Skipmars for their comments on its 2012 draft [He Never Had A Chance] hosted by Gooseberrygoespoetic/ Poetry-Picnic.


Posted by on September 22, 2013 in ignorance, John Lennon, Love, Outlaw, poems, Poetry, religion, war


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