Stevenson, Kipling, Baudelaire
rest upon the nightstand where
they relate their worlds to me
from long dead eyes, through words
still see.
And their flesh in leather bound
though silent save each leaf’s sound
is warm as life and breathes new born
from yellowed pages, cracked and worn.
The sky retreated
night slew day
the shadows died
and mourning
followed suit.
Anon. is my favorite poet
but Trad. is not far behind
Ibid. and Idem.
I like some of them
especially the ones
left unsigned.
If I should die
before day breaks
put Jessica Fletcher
on the case
let wisdom begin
forget that which you believe
and engage your heart
sighs the wind
in breaths
that move the trees
to dance
the seven veils
discarding every leaf
laying vestments
haphazard
with no device
save that of nature’s whim
The age of dreams has died
forgotten with each morn
which binds our waking eyes
to imagination’s dawn
beyond the thoughts
that once were mine
each phrase I poured
the heady wine
of inspiration
drunk on rhymes
oh my friends
those were times.
a cowboy’s life
is full of blame
for all that happened
on the plains
as the sun went down
upon the range
captured on bloody
celluloid frames
when the credits rolled
all that was left…
is the pain
I am a strumpet crumpet
buttered up and brown
I fell off of the countertop
and landed upside down
a shiny little stain I left
upon the kitchen floor
and ended covered all in fluff
inedible ever more.
the blighters rock 