through the pews

my poems slink back to haunt me,
sour truth trickles down my throat,
her skin , an April evening that she shall never see,
smells of rose water and embalming fluid,
her laughter echoes through the pews

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neither wind nor rat (double acrostic)

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.

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.

Marrow and Memoirs

You don’t know who you are until
everyone leaves you.

Staring for hours at a wall of sand,
deciding what is light and what is
shadow, brings everything into focus
and who you were before you donned
the masks that have made your life,
emerges between the hours of restiveness
and reason.

Hunger will shape one’s days in ways
that can humble even the most jaded
and faded of homo sapiens; eyes that
fumbled only for tomorrow begin to
hunt thirstily for that which will sustain
marrow and memoirs for ages to come.

You don’t know who you are until
everyone leaves you.

:::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.