Short Fusty Poems

I fell asleep in a bread box
filled with musty, fusty rocks
rye and wheat
        whole-grained loaves
pumpernickel
        from the village stoves

once hot;
          now cold

the Baker's life untold....

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.

              Yes
         in the cask
          I did hide

           In Latin 
   one soul would say 
      its interior was
           foetere
             yet  
        I’ll just say
       it was putrid

           Oh yes
  the barrel was fusty
          although
  one glance at thee

             from
          wherever...

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A thrown sky pushes and scatters.
Small birds fall from their songs.
Sticks fly up invisible chimneys.

A strong wind has come from the north,
it unearths the stringy and un-mulched.
Fusty heaps scud, makeshift mouths gawp.

Whoever has a quiet lamp,
Let them take shelter 
from the helter-skelter,
for the graveyard owls are loose,
their feathers ruffled
they fly as loud 
as the clouting forest....

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The night was listening
To the silent drums of chilling
Mightyness draging so slow by 
decades, cumbersome so lowly
Once in heavy daylight! Musty
thought brain thou hold! fusty
look now flesh prefer..........
We wail at poor last close
of the no more opening eye
we wail and wail to the distance
so that is all about life? -
I pose an erotema!
For now the bloom has withered
The libraries are raised down
Alas! The knight had gone...

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The ebony night crawls
With its webbed feet
On my distressed mind,
To peel off my fusty clothes,
From my fatigued body,
Stinking me like the putrescence
Of my time, and of my life,
Feels me then
As light as feather
Floating up into the azure.

Before my inner eyes,
Barely exposed I’m
In my living portrait
Caught in the lens of camera
Zoomed in and out
To perfect my image
With my own personal touch
Just for hanging in the wall
Of my living room.
*...

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The ebony night crawls 
With its webbed feet
On my distressed mind,
To peel off my fusty clothes,
From my fatigued body, 
Stinking me like the putrescence 
Of my time, and of my life,  
Feels me then 
As light as feather
Floating up into the azure.

Before my inner eyes, 
Barely exposed I’m
In my living portrait 
Caught in the lens of camera
Zoomed in and out
To perfect my image 
With my own personal touch
Just for hanging in the wall 
Of my living room....

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Social Distancing
(on St. Patrick’s Day)
Written: by Miracle Man
3-17-2020

Today i had intended to be robed in green,
And yet I sit at home under self quarantine. 
COVID-19 has caused unusually rough sledding,
Trying to avoid, perhaps some super spreading.

This self isolation, brings to my face a frown,
But by those knowing best, I’m urged to hunker down.
While many work feverously, behind the scene,
I’m a fusty old man not wearing any green.
...

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I had become less watchful
in this honeycombed body,
blind behind a thousand windows;
windows boarded up, abandoned,
not disused but closed off,
the way a hive becomes blind
one window at a time.

It is the slow drowning of long winter
that opens fusty shutters.
for now is the 'becoming' time,
a time for the winching resurrection
of awakening trees,
of honey-suckling days.

I have windows and behind each one
there is a lively hum and light,
and golden eyes polished bright....

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Time is a sieve through 
which everything slips
what once mattered 
rendered meaningless
as our lifeblood drips 
onto the clay creating 
a muddy bog that in 
our well worn boots 
we wearily slog 
like tired Tommies 
in the trenches waiting 
with bated breath 
for the shrill sound 
of the officer's whistle
to pierce the fusty
fetid air and send us 
surging over the top in 
a futile foray where we
will meet our final fate
that in our wasted youth 
we failed to contemplate...

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