Dawn will be here in a blink.
For now, the sky is black as ink.
The snow stopped falling hours ago,
the earth is white — the west wind blows.
A chill creeps in from window cracks.
I feel its talons at my back.
My baby slumbers by my side,
but soon her mouth will open wide,
to greet the morning with a cry.
Stay close my love — the light is nigh.
The sun decamps as we march here.
You lend your heart, I lend my ear.
Rich tangerine and scarlet dames
command the field with docile flames.
As we are humbled by their grace,
lush lilac looms on heaven’s face.
The moon reports as we halt here.
I lend my heart, you lend your ear.
The ladies’ gowns have been concealed
and diamonds bright have been revealed.
Your mouth unfurls; I see a smile.
Let’s linger now, for just a while.
Delights of the night
have vanished from sight
and nothing I write
shall baffle their flight.
Delights of the day
are still far away
and nothing I say
shall hasten their play.
“Left over right,” is what she said.
“Left over right, or you are dead.”
But, I forgot what I was told
and now my lips are crisp and cold
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!
If we could rip away our skin
and love the blood that drips within,
this hate that soils our world with pain
would vanish like a morning rain.
The shindig sheathed a shadowed year
in reams of cheese and streams of beer.
We stumbled home at half past four
and fell asleep upon the floor.
jostles my jowls
in a wild woodland glossed
with glass, as a whining wind prowls
Mad summer’s face shall quickly fall,
when autumn shows its cheek.
For now, I wear a sylvan shawl
and wait for leaves to speak.
Outside our town there was a glade
where coats of comely mallow swayed.
Their beauty made the billows weep
and caused blithe bumblebees to leap
upon those vivid violet thrones
to gather dusty yellow stones.
The wooers chose that pretty place
to slyly bask in joy’s embrace.
Each morning at the stroke of nine
they hurried past the prickly pine
to wallow in warm waiting arms
and revel in each other’s charms.
“Plight of the Peevish Peddler” is a 2,360 word narrative poem, written in iambic tetrameter that I wrote about a year and a half ago. This excerpt is from the poem’s second section.