This little voice keeps telling me to
keep my head down and plow forward.
The further I go, the more debris clogs the road.
It is broken in some places
Gale-force winds are ever-present.
Sheer drop-offs on either side.
The sky spits blue ice most of the time.
The voice also tells me to dress the soul in layers.
But one can only layer up and plow so much.
The heart will overheat
and the soul comes to an abrupt stop...
When the voice becomes too hoarse to comprehend.
Maybe this is when God coddles the reins.
Guiding this swayback toward the light
and toward St. Peter's gate.
Everyone listened, but nobody talked,
as the Vicar rode on by
His horse an old swayback, loaded with bibles
stove hat pointing up toward the sky
Everyone listened, but nobody smiled,
as the Vicar stormed and raged
“To hell in an instant, to hell you’re all going,”
bony fingers turning the page
Monday till Saturday they spread their delight
catch-as-catch-can, then again
But Sunday morning to awaken in fright
—and face the Vicars threatening hand
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)
My yard thrives in wildness.
Patches of dirt- cowlicks of grass.
Every shade of unknown flowers.
My yard is a swayback horse.
Amidst rows of sequined asses
That live just up the hill.
Their lawns sprayed slick with poisonous perfection.
They give me a dismissive wave, but I never see them smile.
My yard thrives in wildness, and they hate me for it.
Again, death swirls its black finger
around the aura of pristine ponds.
Sprouting the stoutest weeds.
Amidst sleepy lilies and emerald songs
Which used to breathe freely.
Where souls once rested so naturally.
Again, death swirls its black finger.
Leaving me slightly paler than a happy life.
I'm never quite as fleet as death,
(a party balloon popped by a dying cigarette...
The darkest swayback horse at best).
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