Friday, January 30

A Story

Here’s a little story, moon flower
morning glory,
growing round a grayish heart, apart
from everything else.
It used to be in order, acid greens,
weird citrines,
Men drove their little carts into the dark
to root it out.
And I found this strangest hole,
boarded up with wood and coal;
no more the men in rolly boxes
dig like foxes
for what shines,
basalt and brine,
confined in crystal mines.
The ink things confiscated,
migrated from the walls to the halls.
Falling, falling, falling,
the abyss a cistern calling,
but there’s no one to reply,
for the men have gone and died,
and what’s left inside is hiding, biding
time, biding time.

Sunday, January 25

Ghostie Cats

When inky black, so dark the night
Falls soft, and dusky forms take flight
The kitties that in daylight bright
Were form and fur, now such a sight!

For leaving catnip beds behind,
And leaving sunshine beams and twine,
The kitties with a new design
In air they curl and roll and wind.

Through windows, walls, and open doors
The ghostie cats so nimbly pour
Up into skies where hours before
Were only wing├ęd things that soared.

Now see them chase the flutt’ry things!
And watch them dip and dive and swing
As if for years they’d yearned for wings.
Those ghostie cats, they yowl and sing.

But not for long do kitties play,
For calling them away, away,
The heralds of the grand soiree
Warn kitties to no more delay.

So dashing up into the stars
The ghostie cats now swiftly are
Ascending farther, farther, far,
Where daylight’s bottled up in jars.

And here the kitties come at last
To walls and halls of colored glass
Where all the ghostie cats amass
To dance and romp in nighttime grass.

The ghost cat band plays spritely tunes
While kitties shake in waves of moon.
Bright jewel fish dart in sky lagoons,
And up above rise mouse balloons.

On tippie toes and agile tails
The kitties prance on backs of whales,
With tiny claws, tap shells of snails
As through the fog their boats set sail.

The bakeries where treats are wrought
Are filled with ghostie cats and ought
To be, for kitties here—the lot—
Make ghost cat muffins, fluffed and hot.

Beyond the walls, both wild and tame,
Ghost cats indulge in ghost cat games,
Like catch the moth and chase the flame,
Circle round, fall down, and name

This cat or that, whose title be
Some thing that no, not ever we
Would give to him or her; you see,
Ghost cats don names in secrecy.

And we who in our sleepy beds
Could never guess that ‘bove our heads
The cats we thought we knew instead
Through skies of starlight skip and tread.

But all the night times end with dawn
So back to earth are ghost cats drawn.
Through bluing skies, soft kitties yawn,
And feline feet pad light on lawns

Where slumb’ring violets glint with dew,
And night owls question “Whoo? Whoo?”
Through windows float their whispered mews;
Their shadows, silky cats pursue.

The next night brings another fest,
So back to beds dear cats must rest
At babies’ feet, on children’s chests,
All snuggled where the warmth is best.

When daylight breaks and sun rays beam,
No one’s the wiser, so it seems,
But lost in sparkled, starry dreams
The ghostie cats plan next eve’s schemes.

Friday, January 23

Little Bat

this bat flies this way that
his blacky coat so flat
and up and down and in and out
to get to where he's at

this bat he feels the moon
his rubber-winged cocoon
unfolds its flaps as he unwraps
to cry his nightly tune

and I this little pet
and I dark silhouette
so here I be with only me
to ponder my regret

Thursday, January 22

Disconsolate the Specters Shift

The incandescent flame of night
Gives tocsin to whate’er’s in flight
And weariness to dreams adrift.
Disconsolate the specters shift.

Translucent shades and myrmidons
Through halls of niter quake, withdrawn,
While daylight creatures vanish swift;
Disconsolate the specters shift.

What dwelt here once, ‘ere life was lost?
Silenced shadows know the cost;
Mirth and meadows once its gift—
Disconsolate the specters shift.

Cellars cloister brute remains;
Dust, the vacant rooms reclaims;
Weavers work with thorough thrift.
Disconsolate the specters shift.

In tighter bindles, pinched with frost,
Decay, the parasite, exhausts
The forms of what we once could lift;
Disconsolate the specters shift.

Saturday, January 17

The Finishing Places

We wait at the finishing places
Anxious faces, empty chases
Sacs of air once breathed, now idle

Hours spent in reading bibles
Antipathetic, wedding aesthetics
Skin and hearts turned suicidal

Adolescent, juvenile—all the while
Contemplating consummation
Smallish words in vacuums viral

Whirling wild, selves beguiled
Nowhere near for hasty prayer
Here the blood beats rhythms tribal

Wait at the finishing places