Two-Step

Two-Step

 

from Homelands

a Traveling Tales of Waybackwhen book

 

What a tangled, mangled

web they weave

dancing

with the dewdrops,

mirroring universes

reflected

in each others’ eyes.

 

Hung up on the harangue,

breath catching

the sticky

sweaty stench

suffocating

beneath the spinning

twirls and dips

however harmless and halting.

 

Music

strums the heartstrings

and it triggers

something else…

primal

that which

needs to feed

waiting patiently

black widow

wearing white

hourglass

is but a mask.

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Hot Pursuit

Hot Pursuit

 

from Metro

a Traveling Tales of Waybackwhen book

 

The cold

does not bother him.

 

Etched into his bones

as the emptiness

resides there.

It has found

a home, to languish in.

 

It is where the heart is:

to have

and to hold

as it bleeds out

bridging fate and fiction.

What once

they shared

wrested between,

gate forever closing the gap.

 

Snow having fallen

flakes like teardrops

make their own tracks as well.

Ties and ballast

holding the rails

in place

his purpose

a shape.

 

Parallel lives

lines that will no longer

cross,

but that one

once he catches up.

Penned In

Penned In

 

from Homelands

a Traveling Tales of Waybackwhen book

 

Cock-a-doodle

how do you do?

Rooster, fair weather

shaking his tail feathers

strutting his stuff

never enough

that comb on top

preening, scheming

non-stop.

Rudest of dudes

leads his brood.

 

“with a
cluck-cluck
here, and a
clack-clack
there, here a
cluck
there a

clack
everywhere a
cluck-clack

 

cluck-clack

cluck-clack

cluck-clack”

 

chicken run,

racing down the tracks.

 

Which came first?

The ‘lectric or the lights?

Boxcars, larders laden

gently laid in

a mistake to break

a few eggs for

omelets.

 

Yard bull

the big shake

seeing red

busting heads

toe-to-toe

with hobos.

 

All the while

the wily fox stalks

over in the henhouse

picking up chicks

yip-yapping

yadda-yadda-yadda

jaws flapping

gotta gotta gotta

Autumn Retreat

Reds and oranges

joined the chorus

skish and crunch

listened to the leaves

beneath the feet

of those that

forge the forest floor.

 

Ogethan pondered on

his path marked out for him

map, yellowed

at the edges

like calendar pages

falling

as time went by

quicker

and quicker

with the dying light of day.

 

Sharpe, Garth Addison, Jones…

…Lynnae.

 

Cheery cherry

pit in his stomach, turned

grew dense

caught up in

lives of little sparrows

and breathed

chest,

too narrow

inhaled the crisp

cool air, breathed

out a sigh of relief

and his heart

fluttered

migrated farther

and farther

how much more the Lord cared for thee.

Homecoming

This predilection

to malediction

diseases, such as these, if it pleases:

mad cow

hog cough

chickensick

 

bold wives tales

in old folks’ tomes

three, the number

of your destiny.

wishes, fishes,

cowboy creamer

spoons and dishes.

 

the prophecy

naught but a fallacy

whispered in the wings

over moonshine

and dandelion wine

in our cups

under the table.

 

the forest council

all but forgotten

spun from straw

the golden fleece

fooled, pulled

the wool over our eyes

thrown

to the wolves in sheep’s clothing

Mother Moon and Father Sun Take a Smoke Break (NaPoWriMo17 11/30)

Mother Moon wanes, hides

in the moments just before dawn.

Hanging on to the last

perched

at the horizon

bushes and fog obscure

her once stately features.

The night clings to her

sings to her

birds heralding her retreat

pigeons, pecking at

cigarette butts,

the destitute

grasping

for one last drag.

 

Father Sun

bookends the beginning

of the day, subsidized housing

in the vaults of heaven

shoring up the infirm

and impecunious.

Characters of stories

both husband and wife

shine upon

shadows, wistfully

waft from the throne

a corona of smoke.

And they do not speak during their morning constitution

but signaling

as she beats her rugs

that he has long stamped upon

and shorn his stately visage

carrying younger than her years

yet he shall always remain in her.