the back of Hatty’s Shack
bathtub painted black
of tadpoles and bouncing frogs
place for the many dogs.
the back of our back yard
bathtubs’ full of soggy cards
children use it so willy nilly
placed in there a cockabilly.
the back near the corner fence
bathtub sits since time hence,
silly frogs jump and croak
though the murk a wheels spoke.
the back of the end of beyond
imitation country pond,
of life and fun for kids
softened as they close their lids.
the back of Hatty’s Shack
progressed, no going back
life of nature running free
to look the likes of you and me.
Pacific Island Reverie
happened, I tell you
to serve in the Navy
every year when New Zealand wintered
tan would beckon and away we went.
spend three months surveying
days working, 4 days playing,
environs as Western and American Samoa,
Fiji, Funafuti, Tokelau and Niue.
forget the Cooks neither
island group with it’s own microcosm
Life and language, music too
the night away in many places
Apia for instance, for a kilikiti game,
cricket ground hastily prepared
the Presidents place, up the hill from Apia,
relaxing at either Aggie Greys
the sunken bar called Otto’s Reef
even the Tusitala itself, talofa palangi,
when the evening drew on, up the hill
nightclub, Mount Vaea Club for a cooling rum,
Tonga, Nukualofa to be precise,
Hotel or the Dateline, keep your shirts on
locals have strict codes of conduct, obeisance,
pool at the Dateline a fresh taste of relaxation.
is different, so hard to get on there, but rugby shared,
around the island, no beer I seem to remember,
an Island of utter beauty and remoteness.
stay more often around Fiji, so much work there
to keep us coming back for four years,
four years straight I had an all round tan,
based out of Lautoka, many fine nights
Lautoka Hotel one of our homes, another
forgotten nightclub of dubious report,
bottle store and a nearby park a hang out
locals, share a beer, woman, guitars going
the next morning off to Treasure Island
out on the Tui Tai to the island,
punches the order of the day, sizzled
rapport with other foreigners, Canadians
many Australians, plus some Kiwis,
on a deserted island with just a small bure
baking, swimming, wind surfing, Bula vanaka,
other main island Vanua Levu, sugar cane country
not many bars, the one that was open
back to western times, grills everywhere,
the bar, across the stereo speakers,
the door if you’re fool enough to enter,
stoked of Frigate Rum and Kava
enter and have a great time, as sailors do,
dance music calls some to dance, the local
a treat for sore eyes, and some leave with one,
tasted the ladies, their lives mapped for them.
underlying key to being welcomed as kiwi’s
our own Polynesian history, we’re all islanders
the taste of salt, the bright of sun,
language of companionship, touché
to know a lot of the languages where I had been,
it a point to at least converse in the local dialect,
my addled brain barely recognises basic commands,
here and replay beaches, coral reefs, singing
Last of the Robert Louis Stevenson’s, a writer now
to get things to paper, for me, and my girls,
need to know that there is another world,
that revolves around peace and harmony.
paid his dues, his people suffered the most, yet today Germany (and Japan) are powerhouses in economies. Maybe we should all
learn and have a tyrant as head of state, go through the pain, and come out shining in a brave new world. OR!! Maybe we should
learn and have a good governance, learn from the mistakes made by others, and live a happy life in a free world.
reads page four
only three, reading aloud already
she’ll be reading novels
words meant for adults
at seven she masters Lord of the Rings
by ten has conquered Dune series,
she’s commanded Thomas Covenant
such a rich tapestry of fantasy.
mastered mathematics early,
mathematical puzzles so easy
she was doing work three years her senior,
life changed it seems (the years I missed)
schoolwork suffered as her health
and anorexia claimed her
her away from her parents
another world of cuts and drugs
though, all through it, she shone
beauty snapped up for modeling,
lady of youthful good cheer
her afflictions, she shines - to me.
try and emulate the USA, to be a better economy, a better citizen of the world. Some
are hindered by poor governance, others by tyrannical saviours thinking they are doing the right thing. Nuclear issues abound, as do free trade, and subsidies and levies.
The European Union grows with each passing day, a formal acknowledgement that everyone in any country can be treated
fairly and with equality.
a good girl, “I think”.
her head screwed on
her mother ease the pain
that is physical daily
perhaps a small part mental,
try their best, it irks me
I’m not in a position
after them all,
the clock will turn
my mind ease
I can earn a crust,
perhaps too late.
economy, that’s what our government is striving for, an economy that uses education as a valuable asset, and to an extent
it is achieving that, the problem is, the trained ones leave for overseas jobs that pay more than here. Their student loans are crippling them here if they work in this fine country. Some stay, actually a majority stay, no inkling to travel. I have it on good authority the education I
have now cost me a few thousand dollars and I’ll have to pay it back. It’s
just that at this moment, I can’t work. Yes that irks me too.
sends me photographs
updates of where she is at,
woman now, twenty and then
first this year, will I get there?
hope so, a special day
one she’s not prepared to celebrate
time will tell, she was born
day before my mothers’ birthday,
had a special place in my heart
born, strong and intelligent
one that could have blossomed
it not been for the curse of mental illness
resides in my family, shame really
and South Korea have nearly caught up with Japan and Taiwan. The bowl of Asia
a bedpost for manufacturing, for production, at lower labour costs, so cheaper goods.
It’s a crazy throwaway world here, firms going offshore to Asia to produce something at a lower coast to the
same customers. I think I bought a fridge once that was made in Asia, but danged
be the label said Made in New Zealand. Don’t know if it’s false advertising
or blatant despotism?
we started teaching her young,
fridge (Made in New Zealand)
in alphabet and number magnets
spend ages playing with her
the steps to upstairs so the numbers stuck,
songs in the car wherever we travelled
loves her music, plays Bass
has a sweet singing voice, cool
like to open the fridge, grab a beer or two
go outside and sing with her (now)
I’m stuck in mental health poor land
to even share a daily joke
it’s times like this I miss them all
her younger sister, and their mother
my bed’s been made and I lie in it
sullenly, but not without hope.
that damn fridge, followed me all around my travels when I was ostracized from the family.
I could still see the magnets on it, like the shadow of Goebbels propaganda, see the beer inside that messed me up,
see the full bins of food, when mine were empty, the family gone. That damn fridge
that held a stick of licquorice for a treat to myself for being a good tyrant in my own realm.
Yes I daily administer Free Trade, impose levies, have levies imposed on me and all because of that fridge. My kids were no doubt better off without me for a while, I was kinda mean to them when I was undiagnosed.
Gnarled old Men as seen in a bole of an old oak tree.
seen those boles, ex-limb markings
faces starring back like faces
a living boxcar bound for Auschwitz.
knobbly nose and furled eyebrows
with outward intent,
likes of a gun barrel in Tiananmen Square.
maw, the teeth all hanging on angles,
bite of a vicious tongue
sound of the throng hailing Kim Jong Il.
showed me the Poplar Bole, thin, distorted
pain in it’s being justified,
Geoffrey Dahmer sitting waiting on Skid Row..
the old folk - Delaware way
denies his old age
poems reeling off the years
etches away at heirlooms
need to write one a day,
now, the journey near over
more I think to myself
his picture on the book cover
one that adorns this site
straw missing from a mouth
the American South.
the days, when two great men
to tell you more than I can say,
wish to read more
reality - life ends.
Nathans View - Hiroshima
burns, Hidoko” the doctor offered,
it’s been 23 years dokutoru-san”
boils to the surface
searing heat when hot water runs
Enola Gay winged her way
pilot recently deceased
whom?’ I ask.
outgrew the damage
of the Shogun
samurai wrapped in rice paper,
wine Saki sunk in painkilling amounts,
citizens long in the teeth
the cheats way,
centered on Hari Kari,
to stop the pain,
why the children cry
not feel the pain
deserve to eat their fathers sword.
valley orchids grow irradiant,
of striking leaves
that used secrets,
the doughty people,
walls seared to a sizzle
heat immense, survivors few,
back wings of Enola Gay wave farewell.
The Bolshevik Boys
country where culture is endemic,
a group of Russian refugees
dance the Troika reeled off with ease;
Maori do the Haka and Te Ariki,
community dances to Darbari Aatam
waltz to Po and Rock and Roll;
inherent beauty of an opera or ballet,
select few attend in abundance, clap
Bolshevik Boys clobber thump music,
the music of human movement
to put desires in the face of hope
ladies line dance to a country song.
here and wonder what my affliction is,
stomp, thump, or giddy high schtump,
result of all my attempts lost in poetry.
Slower than the day I won last place
last place you see,
something like gumboot tossing
dodgems at the raceway,
even the foot race at school
Jimmy Cotton pissed all over me,
sounds onerous, losers always picked on.
my first job, reminiscement of Deja vu
cloudiest of days when my mood was foul,
lackey sweeping the floors spat dust in my eyes,
I made it, twenty years on I own that business,
lackey still there spitting dust in others eyes,
fire him I owe him, he gave me resolve,
I hired Jimmy Cotton too, he's night sweeper.
day we walked,
words so certain,
are all these ugly people
born again Christians?”
a double take,
another look around
he was right
people to be found
I’m sure their hearts
be pumping pride
see the love inside.
Ends to Means
could have swayed you,
you change your mind,
and the wall of silence prevailed,
built sandcastles of airy fantasy
in minarets piled high with shit
to say you were the Queen of Destiny
to see your point of view, tried
failed to even attain understanding,
the doctor, he said just keep trying,
the walls grew between us, dying
love we had for each other, leastwise
the way we used to love, we’re parting
one day your dreams wake me up,
ask a question in your sleep, I answer
you return my query, I see the minaret
every night to learn to understand, cool
the day I ask you pertinent questions
your smile lifts the gloom, I hardly sleep
to keep the marriage alive, cheating I guess
it’s working, I seem the fantasy castle, questions
need nurturing, I answer as a far off prince,
one day you snap, your mind collapses
doctor will see you this time, remedies
him know where we are, he postulates
the door, this must be done alone,
result, a few weeks in a ward to come down
medicated to fix the dreams, cut her cord,
reality that heaven is a place only for the dead,
she’s back, I have quit work to care for her,
hard to face the loss, still I listen to her dreams.
Erroneous readings on the Lie Detector.
tell me Sir, the day you killed your Papal Orchid
you aware the Vatican were watching it grow”.
detector went off the dial – “Yes I was aware”
– his self respect shot to pieces, down,
tube at the end of the letter box shone black
white Lily passed by in two step mode, tangoed
sheep baa in unison, little lambies suffer warts
farmers deal as they do, vets there for comfort
still Jesus Hangs By His Nails, a sign of strength
ushers in an era that touches things like war,
and depravity, all in the name of the Papal Orchid,
by the chalice of blood that is drunk weekly,
the evil that supposedly rules the world,
lie detectors go off the scale again, the reality
things are made up to assuage personal endeavours,
teeth of a Narwhal fight extinction, whalers abound
and Northern Oceans, their ilk, kith and kin
to the whaling wall, a Jewish parody perhaps,
Palestinians have been there for life too, so fight
fight for the rights of whales and Jews, and Red Sunsets,
of wild fires colourising sky with windborne dust,
takes the stand, a detector twitches, this should be fun
is, a picture of Bob Hope on a golf course and Kart,
to be mixed up with K Mart, where fallacies are traded,
the detector dies, all truth in words written
key to decipher what each singularity needs to live,
a peace pipe with seven Indian Chiefs,
spirit world lost in the beauty of a Papal Orchid.
Please??? Someone save the Whales.
a mental note to myself
the dinosaur devolved.
started wit Adamus and Evus
passed don leaving Us two men.
the end of the species friends
Bible is to be believed, succinct.
sink is a spiral motion that hints
Ocean spreads it’s deep wings and sinks,
the psychology class at university
a flash in the physiological pan,
hear his sweet tunes, see him ride
at receptions are often mistaken for Mother,
brother climbs a tree, balances on a limb
foot tall conifers grew prolifically way back
track, a seven foot dinosaur alive today,
a burrow, a tree uprooted nearby,
and why they made this mess, who knows
large beasties grow on our naïve planet,
ask Janet, she may have all the answers.
type the latest news into your generation X computer, bringing the latest on the tickertape.
You double, sometimes triple, check your passages to be sure the reader is going to understand your missive. The day grows long as you type into the night, a magazine all yours and your content. The readership is small, but eclectic and ready for another journey through your mind.
seven foot monitor lizards
creatures entitled to die
race slowly to their next feed,
say the Dinosaurs have gone
at Tuatara and Great White
machines of a different ilk.
Labyrinth of scallops and oysters
fare to hungry patrons.
dummy on the table reminds you to go feed the baby, step down from your editorial duties and be mother for a darling child. You fidget, no crying, unusual at feed time, no matter she’s still on the breast
and they ache for release. As you enter her room quietly, you see she is sound
asleep, doing what little babies do. You lift her gently from the bassinet place
her by your left nipple, and the journey begins anew.
crustaceans stuck to ships
rocks on a sea shore littered,
hold the secret of life.
sure they do,
always did what they do now,
that grow to a desired pattern
then just stick around scratching,
fly by when children cut and bleed
adult divers dodge man-eaters,
ships sink with the weight of the ancients.
sleeps right through, you put her back to bed after a burp or two. You go into the kitchen to compromise your healthy diet,
a feed of chips and dip, plus a few cokes to wash down a dry night. Besides the
baby needs a good healthy feed and by hokey she’ll get it.
laptop beeps new email, you wander over to the damn thing and see your brother has sent a card for your birthday. A bit early but all the good nonetheless.
ruminates the question of life
regurgitates the restoration of death,
look to the future for longevity,
human life deserve long living?
murder victim in the morgue
assailants submitting death blows
a certain negativity about these acts
days when questions outlast answers.
brown detritus of effluent flows on beaches
exactly killing the barnacles,
thrive on the morsels and grow bigger,
weeks edition closes on the freak show that is human life. Why there are more
disabled and handicapped people out there, some to parents affected by drugs and alcohol.
Your closing argument is that the scientists have it wrong, life isn’t a future thing, it’s more a now
thing, nothing is predictable. She then remembers a sister that ended it all
at 14. That wasn’t predicted and God it hurts still. Her heart here designed to care for her baby, and the magazine is one small part. Yes she thinks of the father, just wish he wasn’t a scientist always on field trips to discover life
on new planets.
Irish in me says Potato,
in reality I’m hunting Shamrocks;
weak English side says Haddock,
in reality I’m crying a Pint;
Scottish in me cries Haggis,
in reality I’m Robbie Burns;
German in me cries Frankfurter,
in reality I’m a player in an Oompah band;
Gypsy in me cries Flamenco Guitar,
in reality I have a Pierced Ear and Ring;
American Indian Spirit in my cries Destruction,
in the reality I am Bedded to the Reservation;
Maori in me cries Pork Bones and Puha,
the reality is I am NOT Kaumatua;
last song on the radio before bed cries Pain,
the reality is I am Asleep and Dreaming.
explosive reality of a brain scan
temporary amnesia is hereditary,
spots on the right side
signs a footprint of evolution
I had a pint with Barry
of old school days
the girls that we both chased,
me his future wife loved me
I was a spindly gawky youth.
convert traffic from one lane
going another direction,
doctor changed tack, crossed the road
the patient in a coma sans underwear,
eighty year old pointed, blood.
on the griddle splattered away
between East LA and San Francisco
on a west bound plane (Honolulu) soaring
many pets in New Zealand climbed the well to do ladder.
my mind flirts with reality
the unreal things that abound
are more real and tangible
spots on a rarefied clot chart
the time has come to make the most
opportunity that life throws it.
Yes, No, Perhaps
made the Djibouti Express
syrup in Pancakes is runny
clock ticks on by for once
catacombs wallow in steeped history
nose doesn’t bleed when you pick it
fly to a target, not the other way around
dominance in a Lions Kingdom irks
day doesn’t turn dark with the rising of the sun
Red Baron was a hero to all
dwarves did work for a living
satellite TV programmes blink
in tights in the 1700’s weren’t gay after all
on Earth goes on regardless
each other without realisation
that are meant to be heard by other ears
in the barrel after the cork is popped.
I pay Taxes
holes in cardboard
children to play
play in graveyards.
keeps my accounts
me a Graveyard is for sale.
at a premium,
a hole in the graveyard.
far away days
dreams float and prosper
shine in the night.
met me by row 23
49, the white lane
ghouls fly by, gravity.
will be the death
life, money hidden away
dig up graveside plots.
transcend the metaphysical. Your portrait shows a clear resemblance to your mother.
The taste of mozzarella on a hot pizza stupendous in the realms of gourmet cooking.
You crank up the old mixer your Grandmother passed on, readying the meal with utter clarity and succinctness.
lady of Demon Light
coal black world,
realisation ten dragons
the lower end Cantonese,
of Tarantula war
as spider bake
a web of common deceit.
days after the Man’s Birthday, you’re still marveling at the sago pudding, your best yet. The men ate with relish, the children passed as they do. Suddenly your mottled hair does changes to a distinct
purple, your fighting spirit now of Bodecia proportions, your sword a cudgel of blazing Fish Slice, your shield a cake dish
ready for another chocolate cake.
seem to thrive in zoos
Lions roaring solemnly
a zebra shedding it’s coat
crossing for unwary children,
on a Baboons back
children should be
Chimpanzee picks his arse
animal kingdom in control.
club meets once a week to swap recipes and crochet patterns. You say you must
go, to be a woman, yet you’re more than my partner, a pseudo man, husband and wife a partnership. The days grow long,
I await your return - a rerun of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest on the DVD, I always have an affinity with Hightower. You don’t like watching it, your father away with the fairies for years now.
road is long
eat it up
rule the world,
a cross stitch class on at the Haberdasher’s Arms, a pub for woman, where you can drink wine and call friends, friends. There’s a lot of detail involved, more than in a spluttering AFL game on the
TV, where everything is detailed for you, play by play. You come home and show
me the spider monkey cross stitch, inspired no doubt from the Zoo visit last week. You
also have a picture of your Dad, and your mother’s apron to share. We sit
and watch Girl, Interrupted, something we both have an affinity to.
me the remote
scenes willingly tonight
her hair again.
to a funeral today
as all hell
the pall bearers.
some new acquaintances
service was good
to have cold drinks
all, though some had tea
I say it was hot.
fought to the end
age knows no barrier
to the end.
the tape of the finishing line
of victory sweet
vision shows no attack
ones behind lost in the roar of the crowd.
fifty metres and it was mine
driving full pelt
crowd rising to my victory
I heard it, the increase in patter feet.
behind, a longer look,
red of USSR
hammer and sickle
feet driving faster than mine
back and drive, running faster than hell.
metres, and the tape loomed,
hard the air
dizzy from exertion,
sweat oozing as heat takes affect,
sudden lessoning of the footfalls behind.
from purgatory, break the tape,
realisation the Gold was mine
with elation, exhaustion enters the mind.
clasps a flag, the Silver Fern
it in my direction
with a gentle plop
gingerly, grasp the flag
somehow find the energy to celebrate.
back on this event, eons ago,
is still with me
Gold shines loudly
room devoid of other mementoes,
memory will die with me, but I celebrate.
Glued to Neanderthalism.
sitting here reading this poem. You wonder what Thane is going to produce to
provide fare for thought. Suddenly you realise that you are too Thane, your fingers
held out in front typing the words at 44 a minute.
touch your nose with your ring finger,
lazerlite shining hot sun through it,
down on the harsh black carpet,
retinas through horn-rimmed glasses
as suddenly you’re back in the narrative, the fingers twitching in your mind, the sudden realisation you want to be
a part of the poem, the prose, the doggerel, et al. Your eyes squint closer as you start to enjoy this little missive, the
start reality you are a part of this poem.
the halls with shit and garbage
la la la la la la la
the reason for this folly
la la la la la la laaaaa.
a mind slip, the cause and effect of Bipolarism, the need to sit here and type nonsensical nonsense and make the reader squirm
with the fact that love is amiss, hope is a facet of doom, charity is what one should get when and if she asks for sex.
arsehole, you called me Dolt,
what Idiot means, you don’t have to spell it out,
dairy on the corner sells Peter Jackson 30’s
to ensure my life isn’t prolonged.
a bed, much like you do, tuck the corners, smooth the quilt, pad the pillows and then lie down on it and leave an indent in
the middle for the kids to dive in when they visit. Oh I forgot, my keyboard
is black (see you looked at yours) and my mouse is an optical type, (runs away when my hand approaches), fearful of another
bashing at the hands of the rapid surfer.
this post with relish,
amiss this afternoon
I am me, creative
with that, I finish my reading.
The Stipendiary Steward
day, the horses sweat for money,
raise a heckled hand to cheer,
heats are received with disdain,
judges adjudicate on a photo finish,
booth at voter time succinctly empty,
elections perceived as a ne’er do well,
administrators peruse voting papers,
the means, weigh the rites,
to find doggerel in poetic circles,
the lines that don’t rhyme, nor reason,
I spent a dollar on a nag, winner,
home flipping a two dollar coin.
Why the Daisies are Booming Zero
delicious Diamondback Daisies
daintily down Dewar’s Droop,
Colleges crown cleaners cool
cowardly ‘cross cauliflowers,
bowers bend backward brilliantly
Bowditch brooms back by Bushwalks,
alliteration archive answers awkwardly
accounts announce another apt awareness.
this thinking there’s not much more to add,
D back to A, and the two in between so
alliteration artfully prepared and written,
on the dexterity of an artful poet
cans littering a dark alley, signals decay,
newspapers dumped on a park bench,
wind blows subjectively, the whistle of a train
on a winters night, the chapel doors open
the ill content enter and assuage their sins,
points to Z, says a count back would be fun,
four letters, Z, Y, X, and W, to conclude the end,
for the dictionary to see if I can accept the challenge,
very hard to create sentences with reason,
let this poem lapse and …………………………..?
The Tightness of Her Pinafore
…she passes the time baking, confectionary
night long ago when she misfired on cordial
reaction an over reaction, the case a coma,
skin crawling with spider monkeys, itching
marks on her arms a badge of office, nails
... she delights in story telling, laughing
kids sit at her feet, one by one falling asleep
story hypnotic and overwhelmingly rancid,
youngest, though yawning, the one to win
smiled a hidden smile behind the story, recanted
… she plays with the car controls, even at 80mph
dangerous acts always follow a manic attack,
car a tool for mayhem, the driving act to scare
police cars in the chase to date, across town
parks in a lay by, and accepts God’s judgement
… she walks the halls, the echo of her feet resounding
mind is quiet now, the children came today,
poor excuse for a husband brought them, he’s ok
and Lithium in large doses, to mellow
in the next room screams all night, awake-mares
… she sits in the trial a spectator to her own demise
honour (pipes up her reedy lawyer), ahem
to be at an impasse, the lady is clearly sane
a moment of madness, a touch of unreality
is fine now, let her go – at which she laughed.
… she sits in her kitchen overlooking recipe books
been a week now, and still she can’t bake
oven a demon of hot breath, the rays head cutters,
ingredients sit transmogrified and affixed the bench,
cry around her, unable to sample her delights.
… she turns to the TV and wished a cure
James, the chiropractor popped in for a visit
this, twanked that, and lo and behold, cure
beast of a sore head cleared with bone reconstruction
a belief there is a God and he’s human, so be it.
Battle of Evermore
upon deserted undergrowth in bushclad seminars, the races of UnderGrath deal with the decay of living matter. Toddlers play with fake swords and overgrown shields, too big for a serious tussle, to small (they) for
the reality of war. Spuriously, divine dream makers dance to the rhythm of the
North Wind through the rustle of trees, the song of love and loss loud to all those that hear.
the secret serpentine
who deals death,
to the beat of a forgotten drum,
in pinafores and undergarments
scythe the wheat fields
men are at odds with each other
battles for glory and honour,
children locked in a time warp
Father walks (or limps/wheels) in
the South Wind change brings Imps and elves to the party, teasing little chitlins as they go about their daily play on words,
the frost from the west left a white cloak last night but now the warmth of the midday sun sings a melting melody, several
Trolls clip clop clip clop across a bridge in the valleys depth, far below the trees that signal fun times and happiness.
buried Sergeant Ganes in the chapel,
mortal remains cremated to be spread
ladies all cry, the children wonder
Padre passes around a donation pan
feed the family, children et al.
Military march in honour, brisk and sharp
cut of their cloth indicative of long service.
Doors “Roadhouse Blues” echoes from the woodlands centre, the Granny Bake playing her favourite song, tapping
her blues ridden foot, swinging her over large bum to and fro, the beat driving the squirrels nuts as they play their daily
trade. Sarina the Saucy Siren sings Hayley Westenra’s “Pure”
in water song mode, her enchanting voice driving the children ever inwards, to seek her out.
The boys driven by the Blues, the girls by water music.
Memory Lane the casket slow marches,
12 Gun Salute ricochets around the valley,
weep, what men there are, puff out chests,
lake by Dudding’s Emporium awash
South wind ripples and the drip of tears
asunder peaceful tranquility, the day wanes
hurry back from the woods and eat,
woodland creatures retire to bed, work done.
Trolls stop for the night under the Bridge at Downhearts Crossing, the leader hungry for more little children to torment. Maybe this night will have a scream or two, maybe not.
The South Wind dies a little, enough for another Frost Cape to envelope later.
The Imps dance with their taillights, as if big cars on a speeders highway. The
Lady of The Night, Genoa, leaves a haunting song hang in the air, five miles into the forest, even farther into the haunted
valley folks. The funereal quality enough to have the good folk locking doors
and battening windows.
I fall upon my sword
death of Men and Children
the true survivors.
Memoirs of a Twenty Something Hypocrite
remembers the day
stood in a field of daisies
the ones at her feet
making a floral tribute
also remembers her first boyfriend
Jimmy from the house next door
of those daisies
what about the exams
with relative ease
she’s a twenty something hypocrite,
vodka to ease the pain
coke to remove the memory
boyfriend from hell
used her daisies
turned them on
a rock drawing pretty pictures in a day old diary,
the first chapter, the last chapter
to read the middle, the end like a bullet.
like an enraged Bull, all legs and horns,
act of charging at anything a failure to read,
stockings like his mothers legs, encapsulated.
junkie on skid row weaning off H, passes out
a turd dropped in a dry bowl, no means to flush -
with his pants down trying to expunge the fire.
of her pretty camisole flaps in a funereal breeze
read him the middle bits in his dying moments
of death and depravation, a story of life dying,
cremate his sorry carcass, like ten gun salutes,
“bullets” in his bowel going off, rupturing the whole,
of the happy party, not ten days hence, death
mother takes the reins, drives the horse and cart
reality that her children are dying before her,
has two left, she’ll watch them closely, alert.
down to evil
pass the gates.