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.
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.
I left you standing on damp dock at dawn
with tear-stained cheeks and swollen, salted lips.
Divided by lies and a dozen ships,
I watched you weep until loved land was gone.
I went to South End late last night
to eat some oyster stew
and saw a wicked awesome fight
while sipping on my brew!
Sweet punches flew like fighter planes
from two gigantic men,
until some cops came bearing chains
and passage to the pen!
Oh, never drink to garnish joy
for joy’s enough,
but sorrow’s glass may be employed
when seas get rough.
Their songs were sung without a care
for those who slumbered soundly there.
This morning, I was happy to be awoken by the cheerful songs of some little barn swallows.
July, 15th, 2017
Please burn us when dark evenings yawn.
and joyful days will surely dawn.
I recently finished folding one thousand origami cranes (known in Japan as Senbazuru) as a gift for a friend who is expecting her first child. This was my first time completing such a project. When I began the folding, my cranes looked a bit bedraggled, but after making 150 of them, I began to develop a technique.
There is a Japanese legend that says a wish will be granted to anyone who folds a thousand cranes. It is common for people to present them as gifts to family and cherished friends.
I’d rather burn with loving chums
in dark Deceiver’s blaze,
than float into His Holy slums,
bereft of kindly ways.
The shadows on the spattered walls
remind me of your shawl,
and of the night when tongueless dolls
became a scarlet sprawl.
Dark night can’t hold you, not just yet,
despite this spring tide shine.
Run back inside and don’t forget
to warm that wretched wine!