A Trillion Points of Light
David J Walker
As a Son
of the father
I am carbon
I am water
Avocations alma mate
In the night
I am a living
Breathing being
Procrustean
perceiving
There is more to life
than Seeing
A trillion points
of light
So where does freedom sleep in dirty shoes
spoiling the sheets and drooling on the pillow,
Procrustean bed that silly people choose
and breast of its I notice doesn't billow.
The Darkness of Cold Oceans Dwelling Deepest
Into the utter darkness of cold oceans dwelling deepest,
there is far beyond any glimmer of hope an outer limit
that defines a dark realm of the true supernatural reality
existing beyond any iota of human understanding on Earth.
In this dark realm lies a catacombic-womb of dead souls
bled white from the inside-out-turning of sand-blasted
nightmares of pure evil that envelope into a desert storm,
whereby living-dead apparitions appear in the shadows.
In this Procrustean bed there lies these horribly-tortured souls
who are like fossils of a past strife-torn life—a past without
any mercy since the unloved ghosts who exist there sense a
palpable pain erupting deep within every second of eternity!
This achingly slow-death falls into a sentence as forgiveness
now is impossible and a weathered-weakness of bowels spiced
from this seabed's loving memory appear as a bright-white pearl,
and the golden sun rises and sets as rats spread the Black Death!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid, A Collaborated Poem
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – August 15, 2018
(Quatrain)
You are blameless to not swim,
Where water is ingenuously cool,
Too cool for fish to frolic,
Whoever heard of a Procrustean waterbed?
I am taking swimming lessons at the J.C.C.,
From Pasternak and Yevtushenko.
Cool water with cool air generates no breeze,
Calm as a dish.
The pen is mightier than the sword,
And even works as a good oar,
When there is no wind,
And sails luff.
© Chaim Wilson
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