Best Mysteryold Poems
Each day in Tombstone as tourists watch
The OK Corral gunfight plays out
Reenactments staged by the locals
The Earps always prevail in this bout
Saunter down to the Bird Cage Theater
Now a museum in this Old West town
Actors aren’t needed to play roles
The original cast is still around
Sixteen gunfights caused 26 deaths
Poker players who were dealt bad hands
Tourists still hear the shuffling of cards
And music from the piano man
Gunshots, images captured on tape
Dancehall girls still perform on the stage
Scents of old ale cling to dusty walls
And card game losers express their rage
Doc Holliday and Clanton Brothers
Look on as Wyatt holds all the cards
Virgil, Morgan glare at the McLaurys
Lawmen and outlaws send their regards
Spirits may rise from nearby Boot Hill
To visit the Bird Cage for a while
Delighting modern-day visitors
With a taste of history, Tombstone-style
To learn more about the Bird Cage Theater hauntings and see photos, visit http://www.ghost-
trackers.org/birdcage.htm
The material solidity taken for granted
Begins to move like plasma
The earthquake rocks the old sensibility
For nothing conforms to old belief
Again, boundaries fluid move
In out around a narrow space of certainty
In which we figure we are defined.
And between the borders
That separate what is left of what we
Know of us
And the strange irreducibility
Of paradigms to truth
We float like specks of dust
Waiting to be discovered by what is within us
That we may discover it.
And still flowers in the garden bloom the same.
The old man lived in a cove
where the ocean meets the sand
every night as the sun went down
by the seaside he would stand,
and look out over the ocean
at the things that he might show
and look out over the waves
at the dreams he once did know,
some say he was abandoned
some say was left alone
some say he craved for freedom
so he wandered from his home,
the only things thats certain
is when the nights are born from days
you could find the old man staring
with the seaside in his gaze,
tis remembered around the town
as the day the ocean cried
tis the day it was announced
that the ocean man had died,
the only thing thats certain
is when the days turn into nights
you can still see the old man
with the ocean in his sights,
where the wind blows the waves
to the shore without a care
if you look hard you can see him
and if you blink he is'nt there...
It was a steamy morning when Brick rolled out of bed,
Not sleeping well the past week or so made it worse
This whole Samurai thing was eatin at him
That's why he sent that package to his old buddy
Bill Lipton over at the 31st Park prescient
Bill was a Texan by birth, Divorced from his wife he
decided a move as far away from her as he could get
was in order to remain sane he was a Texas Ranger
and the 31st was glad to have him, for like me he
never gives up the hunt and Samurai was going to be just that
The 31st was the prescient that controlled 2 Parks
Prospect Park all 575 acres and McCallen with just
over 350 acres. Both had wooded areas, bike trails,
jogging trails and other activities which made them
pleasant enough places during the day.
However at night it was another story altogether,
It seemed that the prostitution activity was picking up
and along with that so was the pimp and drug activity
Pimps are not known to be very nice to their whores
and we know the Samurai does not like that sort of thing
So I thought it time to enlist some help from my old
friend Bill, I am confident that together we will
put the bag on mister slice and dice once and for all
at least that's the plan, I know it won't be easy because
the robed perp hides in the shadows,so that's where we look
I asked Bob Dufresne to collaborate with me on this I thought it may be fun
Let us know what you think
Primeval campfire bards intone their tale
Of fairyland, where human beings dare not stray—
A nether-realm of water-sprite and fay,
Evoked by incantations and the banshee’s wail,
From out of ancient balladry, Man’s myths prevail,
As legends from a far-gone pagan day
Evolve, and make their immemorial way
Down centuries. Old ghosts, old magic, cannot fail.
They live as fiction on the printed page,
To thrill a reader on a winter’s night
In some Victorian book, shelved by the bed.
Such phantoms mock our glib, computer age,
Where even Science cannot point the light
To drive the cosmic specters from our head.
Three little boys
Went out on a adventure quest
To find the treasure of old man withers
At his place of final rest
In the forest of many lost souls
Is where the three boys would go
A dark and gloomy place
Especially to find some gold
Full of monsters and goblins’
Unknown I am told
That eats your body and even your bones
Right down to your soul alone, I am told
Knowing all of the risk
The three boys would still go
Cutting each of there hands
And sealing the deal in stone
The gear that they had got
Wasn’t considered a lot
Just three turkey ham sandwiches
Cajun style and that's Hot!!!
Eight bottles of water
And one rinky dink rope
The boys thought they were prepared
At least the boys they hoped
So they began walking to the forest
The forest of many lost souls
Down an old dirt road they went
One with many rocks and stones
On this dirt road
The oldest boy foretold
The stories of the forest
The forest of many lost souls
To prepare the other boys
Of what was expected to come
You could tell the look in there eyes
That they both were ready to run
But they both stayed
Because there was no way!!!
That a goblin who eats souls
Would get in the way of these boys gold
As they reached the forest
The Forest of many lost souls
There fingers began to chill
Warm blood turned to cold
They looked into the forest
The forest of many lost souls
Not noticing a single shadow
And especially no lost souls