who know no comfort from their loss,
who drown in their own pity
and live only in their memories,
death does not come for them.
They are the walking dead
and are as real as the wind
picking his teeth with the tree branches.
They are shadows that cry in the night,
a hunger that can’t be satisfied.
My dogs sniff the air as if they anticipate
the arrival of some unforeseen visitor.
The moon is full and heavy as if in its ninth month.
It hangs behind my house and waits for us to return.
So, we do
and I close the door on the shadow world-
its hollow secrets-
and the walking dead.
When I Go
When I go what will I leave behind?
Will it be desired? Loved?
Or just old and falling apart?
Will it have the power to heal the human heart?
Will there be music and dancing?
Or just apathy and strife?
Will I have been able to change a life?
When I go what will I go to?
Will there be angels and singing?
Or will it be shadows? Gloom?
Perhaps just the darkness of the tomb?
I'll go it alone as we all must
Until my body returns to dust.
But before I go drifting away
To join that primordial soup,
I want it to be said that
I laughed from my gut frequently,
Loved from my heart always,
Forgave every chance I could
And tried to be as annoying as hell.
Oh, and I spent all the money.
That'll teach them!
Night
While no one was watching
Night, like a silky-smooth glove,
Slipped in.
It slipped in through
cracks and crevasses;
through rips and tears
and holes in the walls.
It invaded the streets
between tall buildings
made of brick and steel and glass.
It surrounded vehicles,
pedestrians, signs,
lampposts.
It overtook cities,
towns, fields
and farms.
It shared its presence with
mountains and valleys,
oceans and woods.
It provided cover for
the lover and the derelict,
for the addict and the killer.
It is the keeper of secrets,
holding close all events,
both good and bad,
that happen under its cloak.
It is the seductive drug for
lovers and poets
who desperately seek moments of
ecstasy and understanding.
It is the henchman,
the second-hand,
that holds the victim
so the madman can
go about his business.
It is the dark, seemingly eternal,
corrupt governance that hides
in the guise of “a benevolent protector”
but whose intent is as sour as a cesspool
and as black as night.
(for David, my night, your dungeon. Thank you)
The Woman
The woman, wakeful, stares
At the face of the moon
The stars dancing ‘round,
While her babe sleeps at her breast.
Slowly, she rocks, now and then
Stares at the moon again and again
Softly, lowly, she hums,
While her babe sleeps at her breast.
A soft, gentle breeze blows
That tenderly kisses her cheeks
As her eyes slowly close,
While her babe sleeps at her breast.
(written in high school as a class assignment)
Insomnia
The night didn't fall; it crashed upon my bed.
Attacked me while I lay there, instead
Climbed up me like Hillary up Everest
Staked its claim for the moon to see.
It wrapped me in its velvet arms
Caressed me softly with it's charms
It poured over me like a lover’s tongue.
Whispered to my very soul with its song.
I lie there awake yet dreaming.
In my fevered state, it came sneaking
To steal its way into my brain
Over my skin and through my veins
Like a drug, it coursed through my body
Pulsating, throbbing, intensifying
Until it exploded behind my eyes
Then gently kissed the corners of my mind
Before it left me crumpled in disarray
Vulnerable and exposed to the oncoming day.
Ode to Attila
(may you live on in infamy)
Along the ridge side by side
Roman and Goth did meet
To await the arrival of their mutual foe-
The Terror of the East.
In clouds of dust the hordes came
The Evil under the Sun-
The Goths and Romans did steady themselves
Prepared for the mighty Hun.
Somewhere down in the depths of their bowels
Came their battle cry!
By stomping hooves and the clash swords
Many men did die.
The land was ripe with blood that day
Metal, flesh and earth became one.
No Roman or Goth would stand alone
Against Attila the Hun.
But the scourge of the earth road onward
Raging his bloody cry!
As he raped and ravished poor Italy--
Only Rome would not die.
On to Rome the marauders would go
They left destruction in their wake
But Rome was fortified and ready
When the Barbarians arrived at the gate.
Ah, but even Attila had his Achilles heel
In this case, it was Caesar's daughter
In exchange for her he would leave Rome
And not lead it into slaughter.
But Caesar became enraged!
This insult he would not take!
The Romans indignantly took up arms
Causing Attila to consider his mistake.
Long is the day for a worn warrior
And the Huns were worn through and through
Their energy spent; their resources depleted
Retreat was all that Attila could do.
In the eyes of his people Attila was a hero
And a hero's welcome is what he received
Victories of the Hun were widely celebrated
Stories of glorious battle believed.
As the custom was with his people
Attila had many wives
None had ever claimed his heart
Assuming they even tried.
There was one woman, however, young and fair
Who seemed to be sent from above
One simple glance and the fearsome warrior fell;
Attila was in love.
Soon a great wedding was made;
A feast to end all feast
People came from near and far
To see this beauty of the east.
Now there is nothing more ridiculous as a warrior in love
Their commonsense and boldness are sunk
So, Attila did what all besotted warriors do
He wholeheartedly got drunk.
Now, as with most great warriors of his ilk
Attila wanted to die a warrior’s death.
Engaged in combat on the battlefield
He wanted to draw his last breath.
But for poor drunken Attila
It simply was not to be
He suffered, you see, a bloody nose
And died unceremoniously.
No hero's death for him
No warriors last stand
Nature did for history
What could not be done by man.
Thank you. I hope you enjoyed it.
Would love feedback or if you just want to shoot the breeze.
☂
A Ordinary Day Page 2