Cold “haint” fills my nightmare times,
takes leave with my soul.
Be gone, you!
More of gravy than the grave…!”
I refuse your haunt!
Late night sweats.
Down dark alleyways
upon my tortured spirit!”
I cry in the night.
Posted to dVerse Poets Pub for Meeting the Bar.
You asked me last night how I deal
with the pressure, where I go to vent,
all the political baggage I take
in throughout the week.
My answer tonight was that if I stay
in poetry, imbibe
literature, all the diatribe just becomes
gas, a methane flame off the landfill
of my brain.
I’m reminded of the news — released
by the previous regime — that cow’s flatulence,
the methane emitted by incontinent bovines
is one of our greatest sources of greenhouse gasses.
A perfect metaphor, I think,
for all political rhetoric lately —
bovine gas on both sides of the aisle.
Let me tell you about a woman named Belinda
Who sat herself down on a fiery cinda
The neighbor’s dogs heard her howl
And they set up a raucous yowl
Poor Belinda’s rump roast was baked but quite tinda
Thus poor Belinda’s tail ends
Posted at dVerse Poets Pub for Quadrille night.
Fifty pulses per minute, at rest.
Burning sapphire, my heartbeats
trace a syncopated arrhythmia
on the chart.
Lively, my love keeps it molten.
Hot, flowing gemstone that singes
all but the girl who’s my setting.
Light flares within.
How did I live before this?
Posted to dVerse Poets Pub, Quadrille night. The magic word is “burn.”
Life on Mars. I found
this cut on a long-ago
album. The innocent
idea of leave your troubles
and woes, light the fuse
and away it goes.
Red roadster, red roadster,
let Starman take over.
Off of cruise control –
ground control –
cruising the Solar.
What a system!
An oddity. An odyssey.