With haunted looks, in the mind
Lives one yet more secure
Than in the moment. When to it
Exposed, coldheartedly
Makes numb, blows inwardly.
Timid spectre, back and forth
Time's corridor skulks.
Daily retreat of re-living
A past kindness. Through acts
Love, quieter, contacts.
Kirk is a rooster in a suit,
yelling “freedom”
while polishing his boots
so no mud ever touches him.
He’s all mouth,
no fight,
selling rage like it’s champagne.
Vance skulks in the corner,
smokes his own shame,
pretends he’s the last honest man
while sniffing nostalgia
and blaming everyone
for everything he hates.
Kirk’s dreams are neat,
Vance’s are crooked,
both lie like toothless gamblers
pretending their debts don’t exist.
Kirk waves banners,
Vance waves ghosts—
same emptiness,
different dress code.
They think they’re fighting wars.
They’re not.
They’re clipping feathers
off each other’s parrots
while the world burns
and nobody remembers their names
tomorrow.
Politics?
It’s just theater for men
who smell like fear and whiskey,
and both of them—
roosters or ghosts—
stumble drunk
on the same cracked stage.
Little midnight bunny
Hid in deepest umbra
Cunning coyotes prowl
A spotted owl searches
Wherever can you go?
A rattler reached your hole
A wily weasel roams
Inky shadows shrinking
As the moon is rising
Wherever can you go?
A striped skunk skulks your way
Hunker down, let him stay
The snake slithers
The rat skulks
The Owl waits
The Alleys of Virtual Municipalities
By David J Walker
I love walking
the rutted roads
Running in
hidden groves
Through
the residential jungles
the rambling
backyard boulevards
dividing the
single file plies of
dirt and gravel
A straight line between
Picket fenced fortresses of
Flimsy privacy providing
Trash truck Sunday drivers with a
A No man’s land-bound with trees &
Treasures found by
dumpster divers
I love listening
To the feral catcalls
in the last stand of
wildland
Overruled by skulks of city foxes
I love trekking
The pioneered turnpikes
On fast mountain bikes
Riding & reading between
the telephone lines
mapped by
XYZ Municipalities and
The vague virtual realities of
An alley’s informalities
I love the
Tell all tall tales
Of what fails to be
Needed anymore
Underscored by
Overflowing dumpsters
Somewhere through Eden’s leas
skulks our forgotten foe.
Seraph of God, now a
slithering trickster who
swayed Eve to taste vile fruit.
Salvation fell away;
sin dwells in mankind’s heart.
4/21/2021. Written for Kim Merryman's Pleiades S contest.
Ghulam crosses the Indian border
to conquer. Bodies vanish; souls
wander in the vicarious valleys.
Fanatics essay to frighten
the music maestro, shouting
outside the auditorium.
If they sit inside, they’ll return
as men. There’s no discrimination
in music. Minds molt mundane
emotions, and become fresh again.
His ghazals, like AB group, accept
blood of Hindustani classical music.
Music creates blue moonlight,
when a youth enjoys black
hair-falls amidst the fragrance
of jasmine blooms. A man in
seventies skulks to1960, where
a brown girl stands half hidden
behind door. Aches and
anxieties lie vanquished
in Ghulam’s voice
and variations. Men
in diverse creeds die;
human beings rise.
Poetry Nook Weekly Contest Winner
My inverted shadow
skulks along
cannot be shaken
i feel him more than I see him
always there
telling me what he needs
what about me?
Shadows detach at dusk to sneak silently away
to roost together like bats in rookeries,
hanging upside down, wrapped in black mantles, gossiping.
Each shadow reborn each morn seeks out its host
like a parasite seeking sustenance and succour,
for a shadow detached is inanimate and non-existent.
Shadows need light and objects to cast silhouettes
to give shadows life, substance and vitality.
Only things of this world cast shadows,
So things and beings that cast no shadow are spooky.
Shadows follow you around mirroring every move you make.
In endless shadow-puppet performances
they often give you away when you sneak up,
and showcase your slinks and skulks when you slither away.
The brighter the light the stronger the shadow.
Multiple lights cast multiple shadows.
Shadows are too dark and foreboding of death and evil to be friends
For shadows are cast by the living, the dead and lifeless things.
But only the living animate shadows into life.
Ghulam crosses the Indian border
to conquer. Bodies vanish; souls
wander in the vicarious valleys.
Fanatics essay to frighten
the music maestro, shouting
outside the auditorium.
If they sit inside, they’ll return
as men. There’s no discrimination
in music. Minds molt mundane
emotions, and become fresh again.
His ghazals, like AB group, accept
blood of Hindustani classical music.
Music creates blue moonlight,
when a youth enjoys black
hair-falls amidst the fragrance
of jasmine blooms. A man in
seventies skulks to1960, where
a brown girl stands half hidden
behind door. Aches and
anxieties lie vanquished
in Ghulam’s voice
and variations. Men
in diverse creeds die;
human beings rise.
First published in Poetic Hustles by BFP Books, US
O' That Aristotle Should Return To Proclaim
O' that Aristotle should return to proclaim
wise, worldly words written with furious winds.
Reveal more wisdom, garner even more fame
point to history, prophecy - all such portends.
Only if Homer could grace greens of earth again
gift words of heroic deeds, warriors brave.
Hurl lightning bolts and no olden Gods restrain
bring courageous heroes back from forgotten graves.
If only, love and life should find its ancient past
amidst streams of great valor and deepest true.
If but one such Titan set this world aghast
would not millions turn to such light and love anew?
O' dark beast, why hid thy monstrous face from truth's light?
Why ply lost souls to dark deeds, as thee skulks at night?
Robert J. Lindley,7-13-2017
Surrounded by mud
our feet make love to the surface
the bullets kiss us, the bayonets hug
our intestines and the blankets
cuddle with our cold, decaying corpses
we write to our wives, letters that will never be delivered
the wet ground gives our feet an unpleasant present
in the form of gangrene, the rats
make themselves at home feasting upon the rotten
flesh of fallen comrades while the maggots make use
of newly formed skulks and aged decaying bone
then comes the symphony of artillery
the roar of gunfire, the marching of tanks
the mighty foot soldiers, and
the majestic golden smoke of mustard gas
the trenches become our unwanted love
and unholiest of homes, "the tears do not shed
the blood does not spill, and the soldier does not die"
is the common the battle cry sung upon us
constantly by our commanders but on the contrary
these bitter notes of blind fate forever sing to us
the illusion of life and the irony of war.....
renard slyly skulks
in the leafy undergrowth
success… dinnertime!
Renard - traditional french word for fox
27th May 2015
moon rabbits' moon dance
harvest moon skulks on black cloud
Only moondroppings
A life of learning is not for the meek
against your views some will loudly speak;
jackals sneering and snickering in their folly
and in that moment others may seem jolly.
Persevere in all your thoughts as most are not that flawed
as when all beauty meets a beast and so then must be pawed
like a raging vandal they will come roaring in their glory
it is your peace and confidence that illustrate the story.
Becalm the savage verbal gale with your gentle words and reason
it is in your words the logic lies and most will find that pleasin'
and when the storm subsides and skulks away
know that in your learning - you taught someone today.
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