The Morning of the Hurricanes Part 1

Written by: Terry O'Leary

The Horsemen, holding broken reins
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
sigh “it’s no use, it’s all in vain,
            the King will soon surrender”.

The Bishops bathe in Babylon
while Pieces, pacing, pale and wan,
watch Queen deflowered, Pawn by Pawn,
            The Knights dare not defend her.

They wonder why they ever came,
they have No One that they can blame,
they have no face, they have no name,
            they’re black and white, transgender.

The feeble minded Cleric clowns,
mouths hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds,
while Fantom of the Opera frowns
           when blessing bent repenters.

The empty handed Vagabond
smokes stale cigars, strokes faded Blondes,
waits wailing at the walls beyond,
            and kneels before he enters.

While peeking through the window panes,
in fear of distant Hurricanes,
they’re spinning round and round in chains,
           obeying life’s tormentors.

The Savants serve the underfed
while Jackals scrape the river bed 
and Crows, collecting scattered bread,
            adorn, with crumbs, the platter.

The Pirate wields a wooden leg,
with pupils dull and visage vague,
and if instead he’s served the plague,
            it really doesn’t matter.

His Princess, Pale, no longer  feigns,
she’s hiding from (the Dwarf explains)
the coming of the Hurricanes.
            The Stones stare, pointing at her.

The rusty Clocks with spindled spokes
remind the Mimes to tell the Folks
the time of day and other jokes,
            but No One looks to listen.

The Joker Wilde and One Eyed Janes
weep, winding up in rundown trains
mid whispers of the Hurricanes,
            and Priests no longer christen.

They’re fleeing from the Leprechauns,
the cuckoo birds, the dying swans. 
While pitching pennies into ponds,
            their eyes opaquely glisten.

The Hunchbacks with their twisted canes
will bow before the Hurricanes,
in melted sleet, in frozen rains,
            in bruised and battered sandals.

Their Groans engulf the land of gulls,
the land of stones, the land of nulls,
and lurk between the blackened lulls, 
            for Night Time brooks no candles.

Their prayers to Dogs and Nuns and Dukes,
(and other long forgotten Spooks)
are more than random crazed rebukes,
            though taunting to the Vandals .

 Continued in Part 2