Short Strafed Poems

Purple boots, he said
  the odd phrase
clanging in his head

Purple boots, he'd bled
  E'er since a poor boy
had tread in those colors
  for his warrior gang

Purple boots, he nearly sang
  as bullets strafed him
the odd phrase 
  to caskets clanged...

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welcome to the many windowed cityscape
the wanton color of badly mixed paint
with a parade of personal lives
like black stockings full of runs
strafed by formations of overhead birds
whose small eyes think only to judge
passing, teasing wisps of cloudy twirl
confining we dwellers to a sunless cave
thousands and dozens stacked worshipful
stacked tightly knit in churches
longingly longing to be someplace else...

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The corn has ripened.
With it is the wizened laughter of a
Mirthless age, showing ashy teeth
Of dappled cowries.
A flavescence so bantered by the courage
Of wilting bloom!

Sadly, sea waves truss the feet of
Burning skies, loosening the tongues of beaches,
Which, with ague, recline on cold, cringing currents.

Old cats mourn the fall of strafed pillars
Burrowing through silt-buried kennels re-grassed for the
Salutation of new vistas....

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