Autumn leaves an aftertaste that kisses cold.
Then transfuses startled green veins with gold.
A shivering whisper, slips through oak and elm.
As faded yellow disciples tumble from their realm.
As it hums through wheat; the heavy heads bend low.
To ripen while the last warm amber winds still blow.
A long-drawn-out sigh, draws summer from its reign,
Gold and red leaves tumbling down to an empty lane.
Thin mist curls upwards from the cooling ground,
Cold breath slips down, through cracks, without a sound.
Gasps rattle shutters, and worry the tiles and doors.
Sends dry leaves scurrying like mice around the floors.
Autumn breathes on apples till their red cheeks glow,
Then thumps them down one by one onto the ground below.
It finds the restless geese beneath the cloud.
And beckons them south, to join the gathering crowd.
At dusk its voice turns hoarse, as darkness grows.
Growing rasping and raw, with winter up its nose.
Then Autumn, now breathless, loosens one last leaf.
It spins to Earth, collapsing, in gold-flared relief.
This blackout was edited from one of my own poems.
Dismal ¦¦¦ my mood tonight
¦¦¦ a tempest ¦¦¦¦ howls outside
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ the truth I ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ confide,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ I’m filled with fright.
Rain ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ down my windowpanes
¦¦¦¦ fingers ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ reaching for me,
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ demons who have no empathy.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ their ¦¦¦¦ desire is to drive me insane!
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ thumps ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ on the roof.
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ the reaper has found my home
Or ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ a wee evil gnome ?
¦¦¦ what lurks ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ I have no proof.
¦¦¦ confrontation ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ I should dare
Have I ¦¦¦ courage ¦¦¦¦¦¦ to open the door?
¦¦¦ can’t stand ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ anymore
¦¦¦ I’ll face what holds me in its snare
(Blackout of ) my poem, 'What Holds Me in Its Snare'
The heart will speak
with consent or not!
Will not be ruled
by logic Schooled –
Passion, a heart’s signet beat --
lesser thumps, go unrecorded.
No-way will a heart
be easily pacified – openly
bleeds~ inclined selflessly to feed
out...
Nor mere band-aide can
stem such profuse pouring, short of
a tourniquet noose -- its own rope
and spruce.
Yes, at its best, the heart cherishes,
and then, a pity, its own happiness
sometimes will raid – though the owner
tries reason, a world of intellectual appeasing,
the heart will simply not play nice -- will
not take its own tenderizing advice --
Will not let other source direct nor persuade --
The heart, of itself, both master and maid!
THE VOICE OF FIRE
A baseline thumps like a
heavy heart.
The midnight hour is about to
start.
Glenn steps up to the silver
mic.
Ready to strike like lightning
white.
The crowd grows still in the
smoky room.
A growl builds up deep in his
chest.
The Voice of Rock will give
his best.
THE MIDNIGHT CRY
He wails a tale of a black cat
moan.
A desperate sound of a man
alone.
The high notes pierce the
dark night air.
Full of passion, grit, and
prayer.
His fingers fly across the
strings.
With every breath, the venue
rings.
The blues are bleeding
through the sound.
Shaking the walls and the
velvet ground.
ECHOES OF THE BLUES
The song winds the down to a
whisper low.
The final embers start to
glow.
The Black cat fades into the
night.
Leaving the stage in the
morning light.
The fat rich man dances,
his body so heavy not light
breaking the rhythm.
Beautiful music set loud,
thumps through the hall -
bass pounds heavy.
Voices rise in praise,
cheering his moves.
the wretched burnt-orange sun
beats down on my broken car
as she thumps mindlessly through potholes
with windows down
we gaze at clowns
and the derelicts
and the dirty tricks
as they crawl
across the pavement
the lively beauties walk
amongst jackasses and Gemini's
confused hooligans steal
from random pedestrians
to feed addictions
fulfilling a need, though
they mean you no harm, indeed
despite their transgressions
we're all devoured
by our own deceptions
I watch the television evangelist Joel Osteen with Josephine from
Ghana.
God wants you to succeed, he says. I think God died or lied,
same difference. When everyone holds up their Bibles and thumps
them
I make my nervous laugh.
Joel’s favorite story is David and Goliath,
how the little guy slays the big guy by throwing rocks. There’s no
singing
in this church, singing’s for funerals and death is for losers. I say to
Josephine
What kind of day was it for Goliath?
Josephine and Joel’s congregation
hold no sympathy for Goliath. Just as I can’t picture God
they can’t visualize Goliath with a wife and kids. I watch Shrek with
my wife and kids,
one of our favorite movies.
Is this done in every American town and the world over
so there is no need to feel lost or lonely ever?
Love comes softly,
Like a whisper in the dark,
But it’s echo-
It clung to my chest
Long after the warmth had gone.
I bled in silence,
Counting the cracks in the floor,
The cracks in me,
Each one a testament
To the promises you swallowed
And spat back cold.
I loved you
Like a storm loves the sea
Reckless,endless,
And yet
You left me drowning
In tides I cannot name.
The hurt it isn’t dramatic,
It doesn’t shout
It lingers
In the quiet corners,
In the hollow where laughter once lived,
In the space between my ribs
Where your absence thumps
Like a heartbeat I don't recognize.
Love hurts
God ,it hurts.
But i keep the pieces,
Like shards of glass
I can’t throw away,
Because even broken,
I remember the shape of your smile.
In grey sheets twisted, mind in repeats,
a brown labrador snores beneath the cover's warmth.
The chill of breeze floats in with gentle ease,
my heart trapped by this chocolate form.
His snores a lullaby, tail thumps in dreams,
chasing squirrels, slobbery kisses reign.
My heart's melting, caught in furry schemes,
this labrador's snoring is my heart's refrain.
The day's jpegs loop, but night's calm I claim,
with labrador snores, my worries fade.
In this sweet chaos, my heart's at play,
stuck with this bundle of joy, in endless stay.
In snoring charm, my heart finds its way,
with labrador love, I'll stay.
It started with a subtle creep,
While the whole house was fast asleep.
A gentle scratching, soft and slow,
Beneath the floorboards, down below.
I told myself it was a mouse,
That brought the noise to my house.
But mice don’t knock in sets of three,
Nor whisper soft, and call for me.
The scratching grew to frantic thumps,
And gave my freezing skin the bumps.
The air grew heavy, cold, and dead,
I pulled the blankets over my head.
A hinge began to slowly moan,
I knew I was not there alone.
A floorboard creaked—a step, a pause,
With clicking sounds like hidden claws.
It reached the spot beside my bed,
I dared not move; I was not dead.
I felt a breath, a rotting scent,
And knew not where my savior went.
A voice, a whisper, wet and thin,
“Let us in, let us in," it said again.
I locked the door, I hid the key,
But the thing beneath is now in me.
**Cleaners**
~ O.P.E.N ~
Mon-Fri: 7 a.m. to 7 p.m.
Sat: 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.
Sun: Closed
- 7a.m. 7°C -
The key scratches
alongside the knob,
cobwebs capture
every corner of the door.
The cold air thumps
against the windows,
as the lightbulb flickers
morning and night
in the gaps of the ceiling
outside the barely
shut door.
Underneath,
reddish pigment cover
the bricks and the cracked
mortar spews out moss,
releasing all creatures
from its remnants.
Squirming around,
tossing about surrounding
the cigarette bud left
from last winter.
The distant air smells
of cheap store bought coffee
mixed with gasoline.
Above rests a pair of shoes,
tarnished from all the weather,
tangled since last year.
The shoes aged
along with the time
whereas the boy,
since last winter,
dissipated
with the once lit
cigarette,
As white blankets
the grounds,
the embers sparks
rises with the ashes
up the telephone wire,
I barely remember
the time,
that boy
never came back.
Edited (7.18.26):
1.18.17 ~ 2.19.18
Jolly chances t'turn fickle frowns
Upside from the downward depression of soundless stars
Starved of their beating heart
Durdum thumps thrumming with the du-dum do falleth down
As my farced and fickle faced frown
Shall merely chow
Shall swallow
Shall discover delving downward doom
T'dally days destined t'devour
Food formed from my sickened haze
For i shall swoon to the song of suicidal serendipity
In the very case i were to gain and brew bottomless baths of bile from my two-toned two-finger fallacy
Pacing and purging
And racing
And awaiting the silent serendipity of suicide
And to slip th'seams of self sabotage
So to take this heart f'momentary might
And lower this lease upon my lonely life.
Time shall tie untimely truths to th'other
Upon my final night.
28//9//25
*WE ALL LIVE IN A ‘NUT SUBMARINE’
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In a park where the oaks stretch tall,
four bushy-tailed lads heed the call.
With acorn guitars and a nut-shaker beat,
the Liverpudlians scamper on stage
John Lemontail, sharp-eyed and sly,
scribbles lyrics that question the sky:
*“Imagine no birdfeeders… it isn’t hard to do…”
Paul McNutty, the crooner so smooth,
sings *“Yesterday, my walnuts were gone—
Now I need a new place to carry on!”
George Harristripes, mystic and lean,
chants *“Within You, Without You, Walnut Supreme.”
He meditates deep ‘neath a mushroom cap’s shade.
Ringtail Starr, on a hollow log drum,
thumps out a rhythm: “Boom-chicka-bum!”
His cheeks bulge with pecans, a percussive stash.
They thrill on the Ed Sullivan stage,
*“Twist and Shout!” they harmonize causing quite a rage
leaving female squirrels with nutty desire.
Cohorts of suits distort
Court the last resort
Damnation of immigration
Onslaught in cahoots cavort
Pander to propaganda slander
Escort darker fraught faces
From other races caught
To starker places.. shunted
Hunted like a sort of sport
History debunked
“Before” skunked & kerplunked
Lore of Yore junked
Fossil fuel full sumps
Well More is More
Trees flump become clumps
Of gnarly snarly stumps
Petrol pumps pour
Sheriffs thumps any grumps
Tariffs Gazumps…prices soar
Ready for the final encore?
after "Do not go gentle into that good night", by Dylan Thomas
Age can not scour away the furrowed gnarls time obeyed,
Nor mask the snarls, gouged as trenches on brows.
Grace knurls the grip that time has long betrayed,
To swage wrath and fury to a form that age endows.
Grace reveres the knurled design that time has hewn,
Not as a defect or flaw, but as grip etched by yen of years,
Like old trees twisted, contorted, too far gone to prune.
It’s grace that cradles calloused scars, not fears.
It’s the gnarls of age that knurls the last grasp of rage
to rebel against the curse of dusk’s encroaching bite.
Stroking the rebellious snarls that ring on anvil stage,
as loved ones bear the thumps and flails of the plight.
It's the gnarls of age that knurls the grip to fight,
against the blight in the coming of good night.
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