"If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired." -- Anton Chekhov
Chekhov declared that it's clearly imperative
That a gun given billing must duly be fired.
The bullet obligingly cinches the narrative,
Sating the thirst that the gun first inspired.
Yet the world is awash in objects inutile,
Which clog our disorderly narrative streams.
So why should a playwright adhere to so futile
A diktat pertaining to props in a scene?
Myself for example, habitually arming
The darkness that swaddles me, inkily deep,
My mind so occulted its doubly alarming
To grasp the black Kimber, now sprung from its keep.
The prop having found its way on to the stage,
My untethered demons start chorally keening,
Quite certain they know what the gun must presage:
That this is the moment that holds all the meaning.
Categories:
chorally, depression,
Form: Verse
old enoch goggleyed and goatbearded
strolling with a jealous god
under a silksilver sun
beneath a stonewashed cotton sky
stopped
sighed
tugged at his rusty sackcloth toga
trailed a barebrown
caloused big toe through
the ochre coloured sand
stung a split nail on a surprised scorpion tail
and solemnly suggested
by way of a pleasant stutter
i know you
i know you lord
i know you well enough by now
to know when something is eating at you
the lord your god coughed
chorally
cleared his throat in the note of cee
felt in his clotted cream cloak for something
came out empty handed
tried twice
tried thrice
then clutched a nonchalantly folded handkerchief
chased the holy perspiration halfheartedly around
the temple of his whitewhiskered features
with its fine ivory linen
then threw the wet rag
absentmindedly into the yellowing dust at his tanned
manicured heel
i know
i know
it is a habit
a bad one
but habits are hard to break
particularly the bad ones
yahew nodded his licey leonine head
in a languid yep
but came there answer
no
Categories:
chorally, faith,
Form: Free verse