Dilapidated pockets, presently pushed but sometimes pulled,
invisible to the revolving golden foci
critical to London life, long for the bucolic
kingdoms that live on fairy tale stages, hoping to unlock
evening’s peace with dreams which cannot be.
Neither wind nor rat stop to consider the shorn
shadows who cluster like clouds in fetid backstreets.
Monthly Archives: August 2018
:::unmoved for days:::
If you had eyes, you would cry the Nile
until your mane was streaked with dusk.
Instead, you stand like a stone,
unmoved for days on end,
blind to the lush fears
that grow wild and
free beneath
nightfall’s
glare.
Asakusa Toro Nagashi-2018
Images from the Asakusa Toro Nagashi-2018.August.11
A Toro Nagashi is a Japanese ceremony in which people float paper lanterns
down a river to commemorate the souls of the dead.
Such Whims
Such whims you must expunge with every crumb
of heart at hand, for nothing but unrest
would prey upon the pride of those who slump
forth, called to be old outcasts, two abreast!
Remember days of mustard dust and nests
of grievous vultures, pecking ‘round your door?
To yell to hell with palms outstretched, compressed
by dappled fabulists whom you abhor,
is Thebes’ thistle—nothing less and nothing more.
:::come hover near:::
Three beeswax candles burn to brighten Hallow’s Eve.
Pocked faces sneer ‘neath greasepaint; they are dying to deceive!
The wind is whimpering, now wailing, down long lanes
and leaves of caramel and carmine flit at window panes.
May souls who have departed from this spinning sphere,
come hover near the hearths of humans, whom they once held dear.
:::soothing spies:::
Sweet scenes of angels lull sick hearts to sleep.
They glide in sky blue, flying over eyes
which flutter, steeped in bourbon’s fevered keep.
White wings of comfort…nature’s soothing spies.
Four years gone
cornered on all sides
blood head
just what we denied
What meaningless and mournful nights have passed.
How glad we would be if compassion came
to call on him, whom life has left to die.
Sweet scenes of angels lull sick hearts to sleep.
sorrow slapped
small hearts…sorrow slapped,
seem meager, even more so
than ladybug lips
sun sea soars and swells
betwixt forgiveness and blame,
yet…we let her roar
sundry folly 