Long Mourning Poems
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At the estate sale, among the widow - things --
mourning brooches, teeth in a saucer,
a fur stole shedding its cloak of moths --
the mirror lay wrapped in black silk.
The auctioneer would not touch it barehanded.
Even through gloves, he held it
the way priests carry difficult relics: at a distance from the heart.
I bought it because it was drawn to the way it ticked.
Not loudly -- a patient little sound, delicate as an insect worrying the lid of a coffin.
The frame exhaled the smell of rain-rotted cellars,
mold climbing the ribs of old houses,
wet roots, photographs glued together by floodwater.
It showed no reflection. Instead: the room emptied of me.
My lamp furred over with dust.
The fern beside the window sagged into threads.
The chair beneath my living body rotted into its patient skeleton of wood and springs.
I watched snow collect through a crack not yet born in the ceiling.
And behind the black glass—
not mirrored, but embedded impossibly within it—
the silver pendulum swung. Left. Right.
A small immaculate metronome
keeping faith with something terrible. Hours passed.
The future in the mirror altered by increments.
When my pulse quickened, mold flowered darker along the walls.
When panic seized me, another century seemed to enter the room.
Neighbors claimed she fled.
But I think she simply reached the end of herself.
Because the pendulum is not measuring hours - it is spending them.
Each swing subtracts something minute and irreplaceable—
not seconds, but permissions:
one more breath, one more swallow of sleep,
one more astonishment of blood.
The mirror does not show the world after your death.
It shows the world as death prepares to remember it without you.
Tonight the pendulum has grown almost still.
In the glass, the dust has settled completely.
Even the curtains hang with the composure of the deceased.
And there in the ruined chair
sits the mirror alone, awake in the dark,
waiting for whoever next mistakes its ticking for a clock.
Wake up sleepy head! Guess what.
You've been selected! As a prostitute
for the Running Man.
The eat your own for fame or money power plan,
power seat in the self-Rite,
I AM GOD the I AM -central Media Church
Hand of Slight. Slight of hand.
The mobile Surveillance Van powered by
Midnight, brought to you by Sprite,
cloaked through smokeshields selling gasmasks
with broke seals that leak neon *** gaslight
and magnetic fields X file FOIA lies and Poppy Fields,
warlords, crimelords (CI ) NCIS-humanity.
Hollywood "Palmyra" Arch backdoor deals
of the Century. Baal Cult Gladiator to the stars
on Good Friday.
Rope in the mouth, dogs chasing to the South.
Monday Night beer and attention distilleries.
Coffer refilleries.
Ever hear of reciprocity of your frontal lobotomy,
everclear, lasiks surgery (radiocarototomy?
For your own discretion)
Binaural beats to possession
for your invasive mental television church S-apathy).
Wake up!
Cause you're probably on something. -Vision.
We remember her through poetry life
When rain comes down as cold as ice
Shadows of her still, her face through a window
We're crying in the night, you're no longer a widow
Oh, Pangie
The night goes into morning, just another day
Yesterday's a dream, we face the morning
Crying on a breeze, the pain is calling
Oh, Pangie
She stood there on the edge of time
This poet was a friend of yours and mine
Caught up in a world of uphill climbing
The tears are in our minds, and nothing is rhyming
Oh, Pangie
The night goes into morning, just another day
Happy people pass our way
We look into their eyes, we see a memory
We never realized, how happy she made us
Oh. Pangie
We miss you; our hearts are all breaking
You just flew away
Oh, Pangie
Well, you came and you wrote without taking
And we're mourning today
Oh, Pangie
*Dedicated to the late and wonderful "Panagiota Ramios- Pangie"
He came silently upon late fall's
Northerly air, chilled the mowed grass
Without even a slight care
Turned the season to white
Within a few hours
One long dark night
Jack Frost killed
Flowers
And ~
Bees
Suffered.
Blue birds gone
Hummers have flown
Butterflies unseen
Disappeared from the scene
Then came back again to play
Jack Frost stopped mourning dove's coo
A temperamental how you do
Written: December 12, 2020
Contest:Double Nonet
Sponsor: William Kekaula
Poetry form: double reversed nonet
Checked with syllable counter. net...90 total syllables
Checked with HMS also..Says okay
The songs of birds can be heard
send a message without a word.
Skeptics say they're just sound
others find them quite profound.
A peaceful call to nature's mind
from winged friends of every kind.
Listen with the ears of your heart -
"Kok...Kok...Kok..." Ravens passing by...
"Twe-u...Twe-u...Twe-u..." Robins about to fly...
Earbirding language from mnemonic sounds -
"Squeer...Squeer..." poke the Woodpecker way...
"Kyew...Kyew...Kyew..." what the Osprey say...
Hope for the rise of the Phoenix -
"Kee-yer...Kee-yer..." the Hawk meets his match...
"Pippit...Pippit...Pippit..." from the lively Nuthatch...
Circumambulating birds circle in ancient ritual -
"Tu-whit...Tu-whoo..." the Owl will do...
"Cau...Cau...Cau..." Crows insist to you...
Your song may be a trilling coo -
"Chirry...Chirry...Chirry..." sings the Mourning Dove...
"Chiddik...Chiddik...Chiddik..." Sparrows sigh above...
There is a call for your new beginning -
"Wee-zee...Wee-zee...Wee-zee..." a Warbler whirs...
"Toot-sweet...Toot-sweet..." the Bobwhite stirs...
Look for Lark, Loon, Grackle 'n Gull
listen to Quail then Oriole.
Cries, begs, rasp and wheeze
songs 'n sounds that seem to please.
Bird words of the inner mind
meanings within hard to find.
Mr. Peanuts' Big Blind Date
I Like To Call The
Scrub Jays:
"Mr. Peanut..."
- I Treat 'Em All
- Like They're The Same Bird.
Mr. Peanut Always
Shows Up The
EarlyBird...
-Shocks All The Mourning Doves
-To A Panicked Disarray...
Grabs The Big YummY Peanut
On Top That I Left Out
For Him...
And Drops It
To The Ground Super Fast!
Then Knocks All The Corn
All Over And Sunflower
Seeds Everywhere, And
Maybe Eats One, But
PECKPECKPECKPECKPECK!!!
Everything Everywhere!
*!**!!*!*!!!**!!*!**
****All At Once*****
And Maybe Finds
Another Peanut,
To Flee Off With That...
Or Keeps Broadcasting
Everything With Seeds,
Looking For More...
Or Doesn't Find Any More
And Beak-Chops The One
That It Dropped On
The Ground...
TAKE THAT!
Or Just Flys Off
And Leaves It...
Behind.
Who Knows?
Crazy Bird...
Has No Idea.
I CAN LOVE
Mr. Peanut...
From Here...
Whether It Shows Up Or Not.
-It Clearly Doesn't Care
-If I Do.
-Gray Squirrel
05-21-2025
Golden dewdrop spread on gray window sill,
warm rays from the summer sunburst at will,
sprightly cheep from high flier mourning bird,
pulsating heart aroused by what I
heard
Gorgeous is an adjective for viewing,
colors on an august sketch pad brewing,
vivid blooms awash in swaying basket,
visual trinkets stored in made up casket
Brown leafs strewn that capture noonday wonder,
elevate a world from going under,
pathway to a peak or slope’s dream patch,
eternal beauty words can never match
Heaven at my doorstep every second,
fantastic bliss around me now beckoned,
mountains, valleys, trickling streams, verges,
a burgeoning green world city surges
Rainbow fountain mesmerizing stunned throng,
eye catcher sprinkled hue a bright mist prong,
gorgeous is that gift wrapped term used above,
blue skyline veil from brushstroke that I wove
I stood alone waiting for the splendor,
gazing west at the appointed hour,
watching the great orb
behind distant clouds,
moving at its own pace, marking its own time.
When I arrived, gray was the color
at horizon's line,
where water and atmosphere kiss.
The ocean reflecting off its salty surface,
nature's mirror, about to be placed
in sunset's drawer,
made horizon's line fuzzy.
Minute by minute color shifted.
Imperceptible change of warmer
color brought cooler air
to the growing crowd around me.
A silent battle of night and day
raged before my eyes,
each seeking dominance.
And then day's blood slowly
turned the sky to pale pink.
Night's victory was applauded
by the large gathering,
as gray slowly succumbed--
replaced by brilliant red.
Moments later day's free-flowing
blood lost its splendor.
Its life waned,
with ever deeper shades.
Darkness traveled quickly from
the east covering the sea,
overtaking me,
while another day breathed its last.
I returned to my car with the others,
mourning the loss of a friend,
a day I would never see again.
Why deep in the night do thoughts mimic the sky
Dark unknown sights fraught with cynical eye
Things seem burdened and heavy shut not to pry
Mourning for morning who levy stars 'fore they die
A quiet that echoes sounds downcast and alone
The riot of bygones too long past to atone
Midst of tosses and throws not last of unknown
Searching for coops so far away to be flown
Complications of this restless insomniac
Hoping to wake when the light has come back
Where heavy weight frightly shakes thrown off track
Beware restless mind state might start to unpack
What if's go unanswered by oblivious ceiling
It's blankness a bit rancid and not so appealing
Hypothetical questions in mind wide awake reeling
One of these minutes may I find restful feeling
He is silence,
crowned in rosy rhymes,
sprinkling balmy rain
upon frail flowers.
misunderstood, yet
beneath his armor,
is the selfless moon,
bestowing starlight.
when darkness unfolds,
time may be cruel,
but seasons can't wilt
soft-spoken sagas,
echoing amidst
hushed sanctuaries.
he shoulders the weight
of a true savior.
suppressing his need
to be heard and seen,
in a world so dark
and misleading,
he remains throned to
an emerald
garden, that glows
as the king of
picturesque patience.
painting the wrongs right
through butterfly strokes,
of everlasting
acrylics, in gold
across mourning skies.