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Thursday, June 30, 2016

Wing Of A Moth






Wing of a Moth




Your kiss
hangs like a moth's wing
on the wet cheek of night,
a flight interrupted, a life
separated from its whole.

It knows
all the tyranny of gravity,
this caress you cloak in air;
the past is loudest when it whispers,
aching where it smiles.

Miles after dreams
I walk soar swim,
miasma'd in a sigh, stumbled
at a stile thrown across the
pasture-path 

where pink-nosed ruminants pull
and chew your weedy lies, sluice
them stomach to stomach
til they drop to show
the truth they always were.

Bright bell of the sun,
ghost of a moth's night shadow,
wild bloom and weed
flower, fly and ring;

between we two wings
let us have lift once again.



 ~June 2016










posted for    real toads








Moth  © Amelia Fletcher, via internet
Weeds and Flowers, by John Henry Twachtman public domain


Sunday, June 19, 2016

Dreamless



Dreamless




We don't discuss which one is blacker
the starstrewn night or sister death
balanced here on living's edge.
Death has no moving moon
no firefly's strobe,
still we say she
comes all this
way with
sleep.



~June 2016









posted for   real toads














Images: Untitled by Zdzisław Beksiński, fair use
Deadlight, © joyannjones







Sunday, June 12, 2016

Weeklings


Weeklings





Monday's child consumes her face,
Tuesday's child is lost in space.
Wednesday's child's not what he seems,
Thursday's child's a drug that dreams.
Friday's child works hard for her money
so Saturday's child can steal it on Sunday.
And the child that's born on Black Sabbath day
buys the blind bride a ring, then walks away.

Banker, oilman, Blackwater sniper
dance before the unpaid piper.


~June 2016






posted for   real toads














Optional Musical Accompaniment













Image by Edward Gorey, via the internet
No copyright infringement intended


Saturday, June 4, 2016

The Bastard






"Hey babe, what's in your eyes?
I saw them flashing like airplane lights.
...What's that laughing in your smile?
...If that's your love, just leave me blind..."
~Jagger-Richards, You Got The Silver



The Bastard





It wasn't enough
performing for the
shell-game professors
and small-time grocers
you called family.
O no.

It wasn't enough
to scrub your drawers,
peel your cow's-tongue,
wait graveyard tables
to feed the child.
O no,

you had to call me
'an authoress.'

A bastard could never
belong in your world
unless it was you.



 ~June 2016





posted for real toads


















Image: Tables for Ladies, 1930, by Edward Hopper  Fair use via wikiart.org