Thursday, September 25

Hunter and Prey

Bones and stones and raggedy moans
What lurks in the gloom
Beyond this ghoulish room
Contentious, shadowy soft?
It hovers nearer, ever clearer.
Breath and death past the river Lethe
Where memories move from the mind,
Morph into animals,
Dwarf-like cannibals,
Prowling the woods of a long ago realm.
What becomes of forgotten hurts,
Lusts and musts and things that thrust
Into hearts and brains where primal things reign?
Emperors in ivory towers, babbling
Senseless soliloquies
Hymns to defunct deities
Odes to quaint oddities
Dirty knees . . . look at these,
There, where lost cares and dares
Play hunter and prey amongst
The bone-fingered weeds.

Saturday, September 20

Midnight Dew

The eyes across the room from me
do not behold monstrosities
that some men make, so they are fake;
they reek of this reality.

The lips of that man over there
do not speak false, though neither fair,
and while they smile, they don’t beguile
one who's watchful of their snare.

That face that holds such beauty true
does with a glance enrapture you,
yet do not play your delicate days
dipping your heads in midnight dew.

If in the morning wakes the sun
whilst you had only dreaming done,
you’ll miss your chance, and circumstance
will make your end 'ere it's begun.

Wednesday, September 17


I do not mean to be poetic
For my thoughts are quite pathetic,
Almost like a diuretic
Must be soon administered.

I cannot quite now comprehend
The reasons for my wiry pen
To scrawl these words to no real end;
It is possessed—how sinister!

Is there a way to really stop
This writing, as from me it drops?
If I don’t quit, my brain will pop!
And that would prove a nasty mess.

I must insist on going to bed
In order to rest up my head.
(What dreams I’ll find, I rather dread.)
Oh, bother states of thoughtlessness!

Sunday, September 14


It was started by an
Invisible moment
A catch in the
Inevitable threads of time
Weaseled its way through
Walls of words
Forecasts of fractured conversations
A morass of teenage whisper
To return to the ear
Of the original
Mutated beyond recognition.

Friday, September 12


Perhaps caught in shades,
Footfalls soft in the gray,
You wander.
Forever secluded in a
Movements unkind,
Legend circulating.
Held in the living's hand
For a swift moment of contemplation.

Wednesday, September 10


Indigo walls, 
Velvet hands were part of it,
Most of it.
The clasp clicked,
Closed on a sin,
Though you wanted it then,
Knowing, you waited while
It touched
Some chord within.
Recrimination went
Mouthed in a dark hole
The size of that
One knot in the brain
That like a self-inflicted cut crusting over
Will never work itself out.

Tuesday, September 9

Ghoulish Nights

The conscience consciously supplies
A satisfactory reply
Beneath the moon
In dreams of June
The helpless, hopeless, lover sighs

And in some torrid, secret place
A horrid, meek excuse migrates
Takes over there
Subsists to dare
Implores one to commence the chase

So back again in backward ways
The skeletons of yesterdays
On ghoulish nights
Dark whims indict
While round the rose our shadows play

Friday, September 5

The Four Horses


The Earth beneath is set to tremble,
Saturated with the rot
Of centuries of misled judgments,
Willful choices, wasted lots.

And kicking up clods of decay
With hooves that slice through curling fog,
The Horse of Green comes galloping,
As pale as lichen on dead logs.

He brings with him still apprehension,
Worry of what is to come,
Yet never far behind his trail
The giants of new beginning drum.

Smoke hovers above the ashes,
Blackening the desolate fields.
The eyes of emptiness look down
While echoes of deep dirges peal.

For above the shadowed land
A creature dark as witching night
Stands still as solid, shining stone,
His heavy head mourning the blight.

He paws the dirt in broken tribute
Sensing each forsaken life.
Although he may dismay at such,
The Horse of Black brings only strife.
Blades of grass caught in red current
Brace themselves for fallen men.
The fiercest battlefields of warring
Are the purge of human sin.

From amidst the clash of iron
Steps a beast with flanks of steel.
His powerful stride and glowing eyes
Reflect the fiery furnace wheel

More savage than a warrior’s cry
More burning than a searing torch,
The Horse of Red, a darkling flame,
Has fire enough to all lands scorch.

Mist hangs low on snowy mountains;
Silence settles peacefully.
A moment surfaces in which
The land rests in tranquillity.

Then echoes sound between the cliffs,
And flakes of ice rise into air.
Cold gives way to golden fields,
Rich green forest, mended cares.

Coming fast in flowing glory
Galloping engulfed in light,
He brings with him the news of triumph –
He that is the Horse of White.