Twining days

in twining days
that slow with heavy fruit
the impatient nights
are sought by local gods

whose croaks are remnants
of former nocturnal glories
and cry now for what few
crumbs of creeping things
and dragonfly wings will
keep them in an icy sleep

in twining days
that shed what both
earth and light married
in the angels' lair

whose feathers drift aloft
in battling breezes among
and through the gnarled
halls of ancient lullabies,
through the arms that once
cradled, swaying us to sleep

in twining days
that crown the trees with
hues of Aurora's glory
bleeding from the eve

whose blackened cloaks
of indigo webbing and
cobalt silks ripple across
the midnight high, to catch
the Sandman's dust that
gleams above a child's sleep

in these twining days
that coil around trailing flame
and whisper out a name
to the chill upon the wind

whose deed is death in
a freezing breath that raps
upon the Autumn's door
and laces dreams of the
dormant seeds deep within
their terrestrial sleep

Neither now nor later

what will I know
when hopes are sold
of soldiers bold
to brothers, choke
on their polluted joke

and what was home
a country known
now country owned
by boundless greed
and twisted seed

the wind, it ran
now whistles through
heavy charcoal hue
pours down the pain
that weeps from rain

the earth, it slept
now growls with spit
sick chemical vomit
black blood reborn
churns in ocean storm

what was the home
where dreams were sown
and soaked to bone
the goals to feed
unknown paths to lead

what have I known
when my tales are told
and the sun is cold
when clears the smoke
from this sleep I woke

Cold creep

the cold is an audacious cad
making leaves blush from his advances

the cold's impatience marbles
the lingering September warmth
adulterating it with rushing vigor
that lacks in endless August days

the growing evenings glow
with fire revelries of patrons
needing more than one or two skins

the cold lures roots from
their soiled cellars and
fruits from their lofty perches

it spurs spinning of silks
by sickle shaped moonlight
until eight legs aren't enough anymore

Fleeting flight

a trade of toenails and head of hair
for dusty wings in the autumn air

and in the warmth of morning sun
an open blossom to lay my tongue

for salmon hued beacons of hope
carry troves of pollen laced dope

the rope from which to hang myself
in pooling oceans of nectar wealth

and gladly give my bag of bones
to swim among these vivid tones

perfecting headstands in the flowers
and to sip away the afternoon hours

what it is to be bee or moth
to hide in silky petal cloth

a life of whim in moon of cancer
dining amidst orange yellow anther

out to seek pistil lip kisses
flowing from sweet fountain head wishes

for this do take my human soul
and trade it all, paid in full

don me now my weightless wings
take my place among fleeting kings

for then when water stands as glass
my glorious flight will come to pass

The monsters that I've known

to wear silks
over a hollow shell
the spider's spit
in a woven hell

mind a trance
in forgotten days
in times where
the darkness stays

and blood turns to stone
remembering the monsters that I've known

color takes leave
in colder sleep
sepia seeps into
the dreamer's keep

ice to encase
a burning heat
to idle down
the restless beat

and blood turns to stone
remembering the monsters that I've known

liquid flesh falls
from ravaged arms
shedding what was
and other charms

for madness screams
from swollen eyes
witnessing the throng
of Beelzebub's flies

and blood turns to stone
remembering the monsters that I've known

feed the grubs
and slimy slugs
they are the dosage
of laced drugs

and mildew white
on sprawling leaves
where the spider still
fiercely weaves

and blood turns to stone
remembering the monsters that I've known

bows the high
with haughty head
to rotten roots
the shadow's led

curls what dries
to wither there
and twist within
the chilling air

a place it was
that woven hell
and mastered over
by the name of L

and blood turns to stone
remembering the monsters that I've known