Glittered across glassy dome above
Slight lights sprinkled
Conductors of
Sweet sounds
A first lullaby
Hummed from the lips of a new mother
Just before a bedtime kiss
It drifts, floats
The gentlest of notes
Glide down from dust-lit sky slides
Into the ears
Of those who will hear,
Pause In awe
Then listen... listen
Wait some more
And the newborn babies softly snore
what are they there for?
what's it got to do with anything?
i am confident on this one
throw away your vertigo stick
they measure my son's height
to get into the opera
they don't measure me
but i tell them they should
as i am at the pinnacle of opera sensitivity
my friend is between baritone and alto
i'm between the car and the theatre
as i search for the venue on my phone
we are one metre away
between the peanuts and the legal drinking age
the performance begins
and i recognise the aria
i turn to my son and whisper,
"this is from that car advert."
there is no interval
and i feel tough
i shudder when i think that the earth takes a whole day to rotate
but we flim flam out of the opera house
there are still tickets for Don Giovanni
it apparently ends in hell
so swallowed up in the life to come, no longer inhabitants of this world
the following week we see Spongebob the Musical
A Little Train
Train, the train of my home, home of my heart, childhood, past
Past, yes, but lives. Hmm, yes, so good to travel here, and live
Live this air, this life, this feeling, this atmosphere, loved desire
I will come back again, I want to greet everybody here again
The people, the conductors and conductresses, and the neighbours
Shop assistants, waitresses, shops, pubs, and all the stations
All the roads, ways, trees, everything. Good to live in my living heart
This is the best feeling in this superb mind; this is not part of a country.
A country that is everything. Only one. Here is my mini farm. Live here
Live here, a secret mind. He has passed away, but he is always calling
Calling his memory my literature teacher, the grand soul of this land
Good to remember him, master of literature, hmm, why has he gone?
Little train, little train
Train of tales
From past
Help to live
Again
The
Lost
Friends
And past
The bark peels back like old skin—
Mine, yours, the cinnamon scrolls
Of what we shed to live. August
Bleaches the world to bone, the bark’s faint spice
Rising in the noon glare,
Heat tasting of salt and sand. And still this Crape crowns
Itself with Myrtle fire. Still—
I cannot explain what breaks in me. Still I press my cheek
Against its flaking flesh, feel
The pulse beneath—magenta,
White, pink, the deep red
Of what I've never
Bled for anyone.
Each blossom a small fist
Opening with the muted pop
Of summer rain on dry earth. Each petal, tissue-thin
As the lies I've told myself
About enduring. The Eastern Shore sun
Has made this tree what survival
Looks like: stubborn—
Beautiful, built for the burning
Seasons that strip us
To what we are. Winter comes,
And I am learning
How to be naked—
These mottled limbs
My teachers, conductors' hands
Mid-gesture, never finished
With their fierce music
Of staying alive. Of reaching
Up through the killing
Cold, brittle air ringing
With the clink of frozen twigs toward something
Green promises I cannot fathom—yet still I know
Lives in the light returning.
she breezes in with the April winds
a lovely lass pure and romantically inclined
baby animals frolic with her in the meadow
the tulips struggle toward the sun to whisper hello
she is Ostira, Goddess of Spring
Refreshing grasses wave in wonderment at the princess
Iris stand proudly, hoping to be noticed by their monarch.
zinnias sit back and relax, confident in their beauty without praise.
in their oranges, pinks, and yellows what can be prettier?
Every plant feels newly-done, rejuvenated, refurbished
spring is leaping in the air with joy for she is here!
Ostira, Goddess of Spring
many think they know her; the lilacs do.
The daffodils created her for they are the cheerleaders
Arriving first, like conductors, guiding the flower brigade
Bleeding hearts, daisies and dandelions love her also
She is Ostira, Goddess of Spring
Foggy Express
Preening For A Distant Gaze
Other Thoughts Entangle Charm;
Ends-Without-The-Means, Indeed!
Trust In Troubled Torrent Tribes...
Raid The Chambers, Raise All Voices!
Yours Is But A Word Away.
I've Got Your Number,
Seen Your Thoughts...
Passions' Preference, Prejudiced Still;
Ran Around The Racetracks, Cheering!
Off! You Feral Cockerel Sewer-Rats!
Onward Ho! Ye Her0es Of Re-Cen'cy!
Find Our Un-Common Empowered Empathy!
Ten Stations Later - Stations Closed.
Hats Off! Conductors And Cabin-Boys...
All The Better, All The Madder:
Tender Butter, On A Platter.
Worlds' Benefits, Cruise The List
Old Globby's Globe Just...
Reeks With Similarities!
Damned If We Don't Know What We Mean.
Syllable Counts, Uhhhh...
Can I Say "Indeed" Again, Down Here?
After All, It's Just Convenient.
Nothing Here Is Useful, Splotches...
'
Taste The Stain Left By Those Lips.
-Gray Squirrel
06-09-2025
It starts with a hiss and a screech
as the murder train pulls in at the station
Its cars painted black its windows darkened
by the secrets and sins of every nation
The conductors smile is twisted and cruel
his cold dead eyes collecting his fare
Passengers board with a sense of dread
knowing they soon will be beyond repair
The train lurches forward then moving with speed
barreling through the night without a care
Huddled in their seats the passengers
cower in fear and despair
A ghostly man appears in the dark
whose blood was spilled on this track
He haunts this train for revenge he rides
upon the people who forced his final act
The air is thick with feelings of guilt and shame
as every passenger relives their evil crime
The face of the victim before their minds
till guilt drowns them to their dying time
And when it finally reaches its final stop
theres no escape for the ones aboard
For in their own personal hell they are trapped
forever haunted by the murder trains accord
So beware if you ever see it coming
this train of death that roams the land
For once you board theres no turning back
youll be forever at its command
Memories are silent thoughts in life's tragedy
We were lovers who crossed the boundaries
of passion, forever hungry
lost in the fog of wants and needs
like two blemished flowers
trapped in the wind of desire
becoming conductors in a symphony of emotion
holding our truths tight to musical cords of understanding
bringing sound and motion to our world of madness
that grew out of our yesterday's follies
which lay hidden in the dark corners of our failures
shared without words of promise
Dare we pass this way again
we would love once more in a binding of failed hearts
that found time for the heartbeat of another
when we danced the dance of lovers
tied to one another, tied to no one
stopping our lives briefly to exchange melodies
drunk on passionate forces beyond our control
when beauty was a face
that poured honeyed sighs from a breath
like the lingering scent from a fresh-cut rose
when love was a drink to quench our thirst
from our wandering desert
parched and yearning to be loved
before we said goodbye
and planted a final kiss to memory
shadows out of sorts
wicked egos somber
crows on the wire
nature’s conductors
connived brouhaha
He perched himself upon his stage.
He stretched himself up tall.
The Countryside Conductor
Fanned his wings and beckoned all
To join him as he welcomed in
A bright new sunny day,
To bring cheer to any appreciative heart
Who cared to listen on their way.
He belted out his melody
That lasted right to noon!
The sweetest kind of symphony,
The merriest of tunes.
Other voices harmonised
By whistle, croak and tweet.
Of different meaning in the bird world,
To humankind an aural treat!
Somehow too, it makes impact
For when we need a lift out of despair,
We may find ourselves recalling
The conductors tune that filled the air.
Buses
Dear Buses
Daily you commutes us humans from one place to another
You do not hiss
You do not cry
You are so patient
You are so enduring
Without you we humans could not have reached our destinations
Without you our journeys would have been slow and dull
You provides employment to many people
From drivers to conductors
From bus manufacturers to bus sellers
Without you we are Nothing!
shadows out of sorts
wicked agos somber
crows on the wire
nature's conductors
connived brouhaha
Some Cinderella's end up with glass slippers
others inherit breakable petals inside a rose heart
When duty calls most of them query to unanswered prayer
it is no wonder with time, they all become dragon slayers
Some sweep ashes and clean rugs until the day they die
others come to realize they matter and slowly begin to fly
Stage coach dreams bull-whackers and conductors
if they don't break out soon, they will need a doctor
Evil step mothers and brutal step fathers
they all turn out to be dutiful good daughters
some Cinderella's get to go to the ball
some, well they never leave home at all
gathering and bruising typhoon rain
purrs the pain
jumping off the tracks blind locomotive train
wreck to maime
blooding noses quicker than white caine
ignorance pickled conductors always feign
with hands stained red from another man's ration of grain
predictable as the charted tides of Maine
mismatching words and actions lead the cause of insane
intent should be printed clear and plain
January 12, 2021
Suzette Prime Poetry Contest
Emile Pinet
We are all collectors;
storing images and sounds
as museums their acquisitions,
and conductors, their array
of scintillating voices….
Some we obtain for profit
and some to simply enjoy--
a lovely face with charming
grace--a lyrical smile
with eyes that beguile--
the roaring wind
stripping trees and
flattening fields—amazing
how many worlds a heart can
hold--or vanquish in an instant
of rage.
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