Quills made of clouds 'pon shamrock tides.
Scribing gulls crying over Boru's throne.
From peat moss eye and crumbling stone.
The gales preserve his verse for all time.
To heaven he gifted wee emerald gems.
From shimmering seas and salted glens.
The icy fiords and rouge-cheeked hens.
Fiery sirens guard lost treasure chests.
Young scribes arrive to scumble his sky.
Toting plastic lines and souls of stone.
Spitting ice into the old scribe's bones.
They've no heart for his ancient rhymes.
His soul lay on the tip of broken quills.
A cracked inkwell betrays a noble will.
He lived for all the things that living kills.
An Irish rose beneath a stone on starry hill.
6/20/20
The Paint Movers.
The old boat sits in the dry dock. Layers of shabby paint covering the vessel. The boat wears a mask of magnanimity, like a woman about to apply a mud pack.
The old boat has a date with the cosmetic warrior's, who come clothed like space-men, in white overalls, rubber gloves, and goggles. She is being undressed, they delete the surface layers of residue.
Exfoliate, her with solvent, attack her with the tools of their trade. Caustic scumble her hull. The old boat is being cleansed with a formula, scrubbed like a dirty step. The cosmetic space-men reveal her clean skin.
The face mask has worked, the cosmetic warriors claim their victory. They hop about as if doing a moon walk. The years of wear and tear have gone. The old boat has a new lease of life.
Anthony Slausen
5/10/2018.
Sweet smell of success
Small becomes sweet
Sweat drops and fall
Sink in to the basin
Smell stretched in the nose
Success determines life not
Somebody to scumble the meaning.
search out who you're not
you'll be surprised who you are
might you be a star
so, scumble numbers
dates you long to remember
summers in umber
scumble the number
dates you want to remember
summer in umber
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