Ode to Poe

An ancient tomb, this thought I have
that houses bards of long before
and boards the hoards of poet smiles
just behind its creaking door

it's open enough to tempt me more
to look behind its creaking door

for ponderings are a pool so cold
that freezes faces in gaping stare
and steals the wandering wonderers
from the current before they're aware

thieving moments of time so rare
from the present before they're aware

these moments I feed to hungry dogs
the pets of parasitical mental ghosts
yet gladly I relinquish life's length
for those inkings on papers of posts

over deliberating coals my mind roasts
for many an inking on paper and posts

leaves in Autumn are those words from me
scatter to the wind after turning once more
to collect at some forgotten tomb's foot
and burying its creaking aged door

from the dead, new life rises in the core
of what lingers behind the creaking door

Found: one marble

speckled, chipped
dotted with fingerprints of earth
lingers from the capsule it left

tiny shiny orb
in white, as white
as bindweed lurking
below a board in the barn

tiny shiny orb will
remain as white as
bindweed lurking below a
board in the barn, unlike
the exposed little vine

for white it was when
born for games and play
and white it was when
lost some sunny afternoon
some warm summer day

white it was last Tuesday
unearthed and removed
for lily bulbs or larkspur seed

white it is on top the desk
exclaiming what once was lost
now is found and sound

Chomp

the vision last night, bite bite
a dream full of fright, last night
in swimming the sea, you see
was a carefree seal I be
and my mind played a trick
you could say it was a dick
for alone I wasn't in the sea

lurking down below, bite bite
the sharks in my dream last night
their teeth in the sea, I saw
in the terror, the fear, the awe
they rose up in the billows
as I laid on my pillows
on the seal their teeth did gnaw

then thoughts savored, bite bite
and pondered yet another fright
what it might be like in the sea
for a fish with a seal that's hungry
then seal teeth become shark's
leaving very similar marks
in the side of a fish in the sea

March 28 haiku

What will the wind bring
when March marches out the door?
tornado, perhaps

Paper mache

printing raw, mush
blue, blue in gluing slush
shredded words of
seconds or thirds
lying...

lying in buckets
of sopping slop
to plop down and
slop and to plop down
and stop the mushy
and drop the messy...

GLOBS! of watery
BLOBS, of sopping strips
and clips, the snippety snips

brewing in gluing
the blue, blue gluing
the letters stray and fray
the letters fade away
into paper mache

Snore

Spilt, the drool
a stale oral fountain
lapping the endless sea
of blank blue lines and
stark pale paper

Stands, the pen
a stilt for dwarfing voice
propping up tired weak
of hushed hours and
droning days

Sleeps, the bard
a tepid two-step tone
tapping out in stars
of wasted words and
languishing ink

...ratatat tat

Burnt ice

Jargon jaunting: part Ally Anne

she's a spook,
more a spoke
in a psycho spinning wheel
the thrill
out in the night
under her extraterrestrial light

bright beams,
only dreams
in a bee-bop insane mind
to find
out in the night
the haunting of Ally Anne's sight

dry and sun,
fifty-one
in a murky desert place
a face
out in the night
is it a small gray or tall thin white

round the globe,
prod and probe
in a flying saucer craft
metal raft
out in the night
the flying of Ally Anne's kite

Crack the egg

even the sun rarely goes unnoticed
as it passes into the dark of night
yet I wouldn't mind to be unseen
when it's my turn for last of light

so many care to live the lives
owing to the name forget-me-not
yet I would prefer no one knows
where my body's laid down to rot

the standing stones are futile attempts
at trying to seize what never stays
for even they weather and fade
in passing seasons and flickering days

what's owed the sower of life is
whatever the reaper tries to reap
of course the journey's end is
more so for what the mourners weep

for the shell may crack and out
pours the runny mess of any soul
but in its time a soul may know
it was never parted from the whole

the lives played out in checkered
towns, or fields, or deepest of caves
are simply ripples in a pool
that grow into eternal tidal waves

and one a soul may take alone
and one two souls may conquer with
and two or more may unite as one
having a life resembling more a myth

yet that sort of memorabilia
one of shiny brass decorating the bold
I never wish to ornament with
when the story of my life is told

better for me will be a grave
of a giant tempest whirling wind
that will blow away all my words
and my soul to eternity will send