I wasn't meant for the assumptions of this time,

you see they brought me to life

when I was destined to die,

we carry the blatant knowledge

and some memories foretold;

history's mysteries of


so imposingly bold.


Time and its contours are shifting

to rapids without warning

or even a quickening,

just ever developing

as though

our souls

could know

where it is they should land

to find destined purpose to stand


We see ourselves lost

in the knowing

surrounded by our sisters

and our brothers

grasping for reasons

too often falling to treason

and setting in stone some arrhythmia

that makes us miss the beat


But truly we are wayfarers,

courageous trailblazers

in our efforts, for a marked path

is certainly to discern more

than the path walked thousands

of times



Lyman School for Boys

Walking through the pines and maples

A cooling breeze flows through too.


They say a dozen young souls were lost

behind the hospital, in the brush;

lost, forgotten, an unpleasant end.

Families had thrown, disowned, abandoned

sons, nephews, brothers gone astray.

We found the stones that day,

creeping through a mess of branches,

a century old tangle of brambles,

the old plot map set us on our way;

his father had bought it on eBay.

So we bike and hike and mark the path,

leaving disaster in our wake.

The journey, the mission, afternoons spent

trudging, slashing, bashing through ruined walls;

a chimney here, the foundation there,

a lot out back the dead have shared;

found, remembered, we can give praise

to those who lost their later days.


A silent reflection on an afternoon breeze

with shade slowly stretching from the trees,

the purpose lost behind brutal reality;

life has always had it's casualties.

The sun will set in about an hour,

we must go now, it may shower

the clouds have rolled, the sky rumbled;

pass a last goodbye, they have been humbled.




From a long forgotten aunt the phone rings

four hundred miles away,

to the dead she will still be talking.

“So much energy today!”

she had seen with that third eye

a girl long lost, ever lingering,

a girl who never needed to die,

a girl so afraid of falling,

she had never learned to fly.


“She likes the company.”

She would breathe;

--nutcracker jumps off the tree.

She would laugh;

--transformer blows; we can't see

the cold shadowy land

on which I steer,

I think I will be hosting

easter this year.


In the field the stones are sharp and Glimmering

He told me he hadn't slept that night

climbed a tree, found love in his sight

then wrote a paper why; interesting flight.


In fifteen minutes he needs to work

but in the pines ahead continues to lurk,

the agony of repetition, finally he listens.


He takes leave halfway through the next day

his words and cafe' cartwheel made us pray;

temporary! Don't let this stay!


Evidently he lost it, night before last,

went bat-shit today, I'm told a bowl was passed;

cruel potion had set all in motion fast.


Barely audible code, his enthrall,

nonsense spewed upon the wall

a mess among the sister's dolls.


That step-drunk continues his faulty spews

his bullshit conspiracist news

"Well, he needs to go to those money-grubbing,

step-son stealing doctors at the state hospital;



Contemporary Mysticism

Awoken with a vision of another existence,

I stumble to my feet, needle piercing senses,

strange faces become familiar, life is new,

Sea-foam green has brought me through.

Sit and strain and strive to remember

the path has gone like some burnt ember

a glint of knowledge between these lips

I was a captain, crew and ship

open sea thrashing, a sail did rip,

I have awoke; broke that rooted thought

of life, purpose and money brought.

Where life is life, the rest a knot.



The songbirds sing loudest

just after a storm

in the wake of

some trillion tears of the sky

They scream,

desirous to be heard, lest the cacophony of

hopeful songs bourne

from whisper's within an avian mind's eye


Some say the sun's brightest

just after a storm

hanging in the crisp clarity,

cloudless skies bare

of the dirt kicked up by

a lust for some more.


Or maybe our dulled senses

are just pierced by the warm

excited and breathing the freshest of petrichor,

newly cleansed and free to adore

this serendipidous life

with a divine desire

to put aside all of the strife

and join in with the choir.


Fresh Air

Sun shining, clouds fading,

the smell of spring through the trees,

a spade helps roll the yard, creating

an even menagerie of earth tones;

gives the aroma of growth to come.

Kneeling in the soil, trudging

up mounds and furrows, burrowing

through the fresh earth.

The girth is wide and wasteful,

not too close, keep tame and tasteful.

Cooling water, an afternoon breeze,

seeds spilled in the luscious ground;

buried and drowned. Sit straight,

meditate: this old flesh through

ancient magic will be new.


Musings on a Blue Moon

It's days like these

where the leaflets

hover just a

little longer

before they strike

the ground

when the hue

becomes piercing

and leaves that cool aftertaste

like a menthol of the eyes


It is these weeks

where chaos stands

and has a calming meandering;

silence before a storm

and the shimmer from an other's wake


And in these months

where luna draws a lust

unto our eyes, shattering

like a crying broken child

and the sun scorches

our retinas, burning

images of not yet known

in front of our minds.


Crematoria Euphoria

There were dead possums everywhere today

and in the late sun carrion crows cackled

then flocked overhead.

Bare trees hurricane strippes of leaves

now strewn down late summer northeastern streets


these are those waning days.


Deer blood smeared and musking a cooling breeze

full of the smell of rotting maple leaves,

torn and cracking trees

collapsed on the earthen floor


Silence permeates the bitter haze.



Deafening silence, the weezing stops

short of peaceful, a sneering cop

waits outside the door; ignore, abhor.

A need for more; young breath

ceasing, unfair parental ignore,

beckoning death, within strange doors.

Inexcusable malice weighs down, creates

psychological contours,

distorting lucid compassion,

from deep soul, that permeates.


A curious prognosis

of life's most common doses.

Enter and strive,

be bested and die.

While the flicker fades fast,

the flame exists through the last.



Hushed whispers

falling silently upon my ears

"The serpent's tongue;

 beautiful allusion."

Oh, but what do I hear?

Chewing  tickishly on feminine nails,

 and then the males.

uncertainty and confusion prevail.


Returning to a foreground revelry

of dismissive persistence

the inane insanity

leavening my meddlesome brain.


Hollow Space

The whispers of the dead,

   more like screams

Feeding opinions

   an unguided dominion

The fathers of humanity wanted to protect their sons

   is all.

Programming in young psyche a hopefully deterring,

   shunful call

Civility, its definition.

Disgust, its admonition.


Choking the fuel of understanding,

how could one expect much more,

from a world abhorred by itself?


Presumptuous ancients,

   your perception hasn't carried,

      and your cognizance is good and buried

Community is more of a relay,

   whether observed or ignored,

      the young possess, in essence,

      that learned in the father's presence.


After millenia of hand offs,

the baton has grown rancid,

and the sons lay, far to lucid,

feeling broken and fumble.

Having become numb to all

they ignore all warnings,

and why not?

There is no more faith in

words meaning anything.


All they can learn are lies,

to be petty, pretty little spies;

there is no application of absolutes

in a world fading to gray.


The dismay could make you sick

if tolerance had not grown so thick,

so the Civil fiend for it,

like there is a need for it.

But it will kill just the same,

and without intervention

it will kill without a name.


In a world where the dead

reign supreme, their creeds blood red,

or white-wash clean,

the Civil plea for their own way,

one full of honest lovable time;

never ever-lasting play,

or some infernal, eternal rhyme.


Utopian fever dreams

have, and will never reflect

the pleasure of living

   of understanding

   of giving

seeing the purity in another's face.


Behaviors observed tick

in the space between consonance and beat

that hollow space

where all thought falls away

and out of that hole,

strolls some disowned soul,

there to flick your ear,

and moisten your feet,

contort your reason;

self-actualized treason.


"We live for them," you think, well, you've been told.

Some precursive possession

that was owed every little thing,

but we don't anymore,

pleasure, gore, or lore,

keep the Civil occupied

when not inwardly abhorred.


And while we remain in their time

stranded, we are unable to climb

to any pleasant evolutionary line,

simply stagnant; as a fallen pine

laying, the pattern may remain

but is still always deteriorating.


Returning to arbitrated standards,

a Pavlovian generational game which

makes us sprint from a flame,

a civilized spectre impresses, and

says we must achieve a fame

which never existed

outside of our minds.


The weight of silence bears down

looking for any faint sound

to reset your mind at ease;

sometimes silence can't be satisfied

and the ticking empowering lies

cry for you to believe them

no matter belief, they weigh the same;

compelling, distracting, dominating your name.


Wars of Silence

In the Age of Information

battles aren't fought with words

but in the breaths between

in the silence

in the doubt


Wars we wage everyday

unshown and unknown

in the directions we go

but in the hollow

between the choices made


A skirmish of silence

dancing feverishly around

a topic, a question, a trance

that is rarely so profound

as the thoughts we possess


And in the silence's caress

we find our answers

pushing our bodies so hard,

a driven routine, like dancers

searching for the perfect motion.


As if that notion could cure us

of the inquisitive longing

or the need for belonging,

still we'll all sing our songs in

our curious way.


And when we feel betrayed

we resolve to stirring the souls

to alleviate this need for control

as if the resulting chaos

were planned or even expected

to redeem us

from a discordant conscious project.


A New Age

The world has become changed,

we no longer are them.

And never are we solemn,

lest solemnity's in.

The rote definition,

of life, and life spent:

loving, betraying,

or contorting; chagrined.


And so, we medicate; desecrate,

will to propagate lost lies.

Our minds' endless seeing of soft,

tumultuous cries.

Forceful endeavors, in stone

and steel boxes,

forgetting the meaning, of a field,

littered with oxen.


The unwillful directed

by myriad chemistry;

seeking being lost,

or false, heartfelt camaraderie.

But always accepting the ancient

avenue or destiny.


Lost little children of all shapes,

sizes, and colors.

Blindly grasping for meaning,

without the guide of a mother.

An eon forgotten past,

assumed to be known,

like presumptuous logic

could place definition to soul.


Impermanent actions, guided by

impersonal factions.

The merit of blood,

is red hypnotic, didactic?

For if it be genetic, a percent

makes us siblings, distracted.

Passive aggression, pushing

crowds just for sake.

Monetary diversion

progresses. 'Til when?

For comfort, for power?

A juvenile striving.


Unbound by the laws

lain before history,

mysteries of life become

infantile compulsory.

Just to awaken, from dream

to a haze,

this cold world may survive,

least 'til next day.

But to be ruled by the bars,

set in one's mind,

numbing experience,

held by the crux of machined delirium,

the fear within all,

will burst out the seams,

like a century old doll.



Have we been sisters? or, Lovers?

Possibly brothers torn asunder.

Was I your mother forever ago,

or did you deliver this strength that I show?


What have we shared

in our indescript pairing?

What appears so fleeting

and is longer than these lives endearing?


Dead John

The connections of men are

rarely defined by a quest of "how far?"

and often so acute, still they affect

with unseen conviction.

The actions carry a weight

that seldom do we feel,

and fortunate are we

for the weight of existence

is unceasing penance

to each other, our brothers.


Dead John showed me this,

colliding with my lifeline,

guiding me through a gate

which stood unseen before me.


I always felt this existence,

always minded my sisters

leaving something amiss for

her to delve into and find,

a belabored yet savored

soul sent message of kind.


Blood of Oil

I wish you could see,

we're draining dry,

laying in a stupor of luxury,

playing in a bed of ill-constructed lies.


All synthetic, all the time

like being oh so sterile

hasn't a chance for perilous

outcome, becoming deaf

and dumb, for without their words

we must live in different worlds,

and of course oppress each other

to contrast the duress

wrought of guilty hedon games,

brought from shunts of lead laden alchemy,

as if this daft mimicry

is some gold grown on an already perfect pearl.


We whisper and scream,

awaken and dream.

All the while we grow insane

and infertile, losing our names

for the hope of arbitrary fame

within a self-defined game;

if we define our own rules,

why must anyone lose?


We question, and seek some assumed

omnipresent truth, as if any one

perception isn't opaque and unique,

forever second-guessing, our thoughts,

our beliefs, that Civil response

is ever so meek


And pointedly pathetic,

like a disillusioned heretic

revealing a shame  for his actions and words

to all of the false prophets

and their caricatured lord.


Fatty Tears

We continue to drown sorrows

with fatty tears of sweet souls'

lost tomorrows,

Compassion never enough

for the hedons we've become,

using cultures pure;

far more than ourselves.


Objectifying life is always

a growing shade,

on our human function,

We have reasoning



          ... reason.

And I don't see benefit

in global neglect of it,

Or worse yet

contorted reason,

"Because we can!"

So can't we all shoot heroine?

If to flee suffrage

is what one is seeking;

it is still gluttonous poisoning.


See, we aren't built for it,

Top-of-food-chain barbarism

is a subjective embolism

upon the social soul's progression.

Ignore of null argument

fractures functional conscience;

ill-defined slaughter,

finding game, despicable laughter,

in a holocaust demeaning

just as, and exponentially more

than those we have seen.


But the nausea comes

in seeing we are most tortured of all

needing to murder our nature

in lieu of what Is.

Without feeling our own humanity

we have no center of harmony.


The dissonance makes us sick,

but with the Civil hiding why

we will continue to clash

conflict, and die,

'lest we desert this social nervous tic.


Submit or Omit

It starts innocent,

wide-eyed, unclassified.

With, what is this?

Or, that?

The eventual,

What am I?

(detrimental thought)

reminisce and redesign;

definition of self

its matching rhyme.


But that definition

Is not permitted

Is thrown out and dies,

persistent existence,

shy-eyed and vilified.

With, where can I rest?

Or simply, not act?

Where can I run to?

Just break down and cry.


To console the Civil

into seeing your worth

self fighting Self

for a place in the world.

And resorts to

fleeing through a tent

slant-eyed, or petrified

submission to a toxic nest,

Making you fat

on its words,

making you writhe.


But why can't we stand,

strong, hoping to mend,

bright-eyed and rectified,

being our brilliant selves, and

helping for others,

not just means to an end?


The Ends of the Earth

Mythologic bibliotech, holds

answers for all of life's meaningless

Why?s, or, How?s

"To the ends of the earth!"

funny thing about a globe,

its end is designated to be.


A satisfied curiosity

whims on reference gained,

no matter the means;

travel (physic or psychic),

conversing, or a suffered tragedy.


Endlessly sought intricacies,

a feud brewed of discontent,

and there is no end.


We stand, sit, and lay,

create, consume, remain;

a flutter of action

of varied redaction

creates a memorable unity

of one's persistent history.


See, we create ourselves

choosing or neglecting each act,

believing or discontinuing fact.


We consume ourselves,

     and others, too,

shelving self to sociability,

isolating our ideals ironically.


Be who you are:

     fight who you are.

We remain ourselves

with or without answers.


Funny thing about a globe,

it begins again, if you can be.



It has been a while,

has it not?

We are moving so slow

it is hard to see

the energy through the cold

it is hard to feel

your kind and radiant soul

harboring some lifetimes of seals,

unnoticed, unthanked, and imposingly bold.


You carry volumes inside

appearing old and so brittle,

cracking with the ages you hide

beneath a layer so hard,

that vastness can make me feel little.


Though we differ not so,

lost life masking my soul

from the serenity built upon it,

a core molten and trapped,

endlessly renewing my stone solid casque,

the fire inside tempered

by the frame of desolate black.



Urban Complacency

Oh, to be free

of you, and of me

of this place;

it hasn't any space.


What's left here anyway?

I've done what I could.

have been shunned where I stood,




Cubist ramblings left sinking ships drown;

a picnic never so far from six below ground.



Copyright © 2017 James N. Nutter

All Rights Reserved