The Abandoned Landfill

It's the final resting place
Of the detritus of life.
Earth to earth.  Dust to dust.  Just like us.
Mementos, meaningful once
Meaningless now, mingle
With the refuse they have become.

Five diaries, the contents of which
Would have shattered families;
Several letters of apology, never sent,
That might have mended them.

Three fetuses, conceived in love
But birthed in fear and swaddled in shame
When delivered in lonely bathrooms.
Disposed of with varying degrees
Of remorse and relief.

The decaying remains of dead pets,
Loved more than the abandoned babes,
But thrown away when life left them
Unable to fawn, to purr, to please.

A couple dozen scrapbooks,
An armload of high school yearbooks,
Galleries of pictures of family and friends
Once cherished, now forgotten.

A box containing a lifetime of Sunday
Sermons delivered, that elicited
Only indifference.
Three unpublished novels,
Authors' dreams deferred,
Disposed of by their heirs
As so much waste paper.
Many books that were published;
Some enjoyed, now all outdated
Unwanted and discarded.

A bleak perspective perhaps,
But it's hard to be positive when one reads
Of civilizations that have flourished, then faded.
Worlds die, and even Suns give out
Either with a bang or a sigh.

All we love, we cherish,
We yearn for, or to become,
Is but a brief flare of a match
In the ever brooding, all devouring
Onslaught of time, that leads to naught
But oblivion's eternal night.

Rules of the Road

Pick your time wisely.
Make sure your feet are healthy,
Your legs and heart strong,
Your soul honed for hardship.
Pack a knife, water, pepper, some biscuits.
Leave the morning of a holiday.
That puts more miles behind you
Before they notice that you're gone.

The star that glows on the bright end
Of the ladle we call "The Little Dipper,"
Is "Polaris,"  the "North Star."
The Lord has set it there as a beacon
You can follow  it north, to freedom.
Need guidance in daytime?
If you're heading north as you ought,
At morning your shadow's to your left.
It moves to your right
During the hot afternoon sun.
No Sun?  Moss grows on the north side
Of a tree.  Keep moving that direction.

Near the Mississippi?
Old Man River flows south,
Keep travelling against the current.
If you reach the Rock River
You can follow it toward Wisconsin.

Travel at night.  Lay low during the day.
Darkness is your friend, your cloak,
Your concealment,
As is a thick morning fog.
Don't steal.  Light no fire.
Do nothing to call attention to yourself.
Keep on looking back, over your shoulder.

You can't outrun dogs, but you can try
To outsmart them.
Wade in streams where your scent won't linger,
But for goodness sake be mindful of snakes.
Rub your feet with pepper, turpentine,
Even wild onions if you can find them.
Anything that will confound a hound's nose.
If you find an old cemetery, some say
That the dust of the dead, stirred into paste,
Gives off a smell that no dog dare follow.
Worse comes to worse you can use your knife
To gut a stubborn hound if one hunts you out.

Tall prairie grass makes good hiding,
But know what poison ivy and oak look like.
Taking a nap in either can lead to pain
Searing as that of an overseer's lash.
Fill up on water whether you're thirsty or not,
'Cause there's sure to come a time when you will be.
Keep on looking back, over your shoulder.

Godspeed on your journey, brave fugitive.
May courage, wisdom, luck
and the assistance of the Divine Savior
Lead you to good people, safe havens
And despite much hardship,  to Freedom.

The Ministry of Loneliness

Britain has set up a Ministry of Loneliness;
No, not like the U. S., where televangelists
Peddle God's love like some magic panacea
For companionship, a pet rock for the soul;
Cold comfort, an empty promise,
A sorry substitute for the  loving reciprocity 
of touch, of warmth, desire and connection
That so many of us desperately crave;
A shakedown for dollars, basically.

No, this is an actual political department,
A ministry set up to seek out and offer help
To “All the lonely people,”  
The Eleanor Rigbys of the world.
Maybe the statisticians can discover
“Where do they all come from”
And find a cure for their affliction.

The irony is that as our population grows
We  become more infected with loneliness.
Isolation spreads like an epidemic as we
Take refuge behind our computer screens,
Hoping that internet pimps such as Our Time,
Match, Farmers Only or E-Harmony.com
Can set us up with a soul-mate,
A chimerical promise that at best suggests

Two halves unlikely ever to become a whole,
Not being able to meld into a couple where
Each brings unique strengths and weaknesses
To a relationship, and through bonding
Their differences, become stronger united.

 Loneliness leaves one hollow, empty to the core.
An existence that's a prison cell, a dark cavern,
An impenetrable jungle or wind whipped desolation,
Even the bustling anonymity of a city
Becomes solitary confinement if one has no one
To talk to, to interact with, to go home to.
it's so sad to see so many yearning for love
In a world of people who are just as lonely.

There are people out there who need love,
Companionship, friendship, or even a kind word,
As much as you may need theirs.
Sure, a Ministry of Love is a nice gesture, a start,
But an effort doomed to failure until the lonely learn
That to be loved they must be ready to offer love.
One opens oneself to rejection, certainly,
 Opening one's heart leaves one vulnerable,
It may lead to heartache and pain
 It could possibly lead though to a lasting love,
A collaboration of two hearts, two minds, two souls
That will be the salvation of them both.