Sycamore and 26th

don't rest under the sycamore
there's work yet to be done

the road bleeds into the sky
in the rising of the sun

though you're in the middle
of leaving sleep behind in bed

yawns must be drowned in
coffee that pours into your head

don't stop at the sycamore
a bit further you must go

to listen to the masses
cooing to them as they crow

vital are you, the courier
of information and words

even at times you may feel
all the crowing is for the birds

don't get held up at the sycamore
your place is still on east

though tangled, garbled voices
may seem a fearsome beast

steady on past the sycamore
where your gleaming sword awaits

albeit a phone rather than sword
alas, cruel were the fates

Them and wind

the coats piled on
layered, lacquered leaves
of lives lived long ago
so far passed they
have yet to come


the ashes cling to
the air once was there
dust trickles down
demolished demigods
in late September


gnarled and smooth
the grasping claws
of earthbound towers
whose sap runs thin
the blood of eras


twisted tussle of dance
in the dying afternoon
and under the gluttonous moon
they call, "Friend, come to me!
Wind, blow through me!"

A September mourning

heavy breath

upon faded blades

retreats the pulse

of humming wings

earth draws back

the green

silks adorned 

with hollow shells

flowers fail 

to fully fruit 

before the first

kiss of frost

dims the candle 

of the sky

as it sinks into

southern songs

crows call out

for the cold

Eve

her fingers crawl over the sky
a spider's scamper thither, there
zig zagging weave of purple
gloom in high drifting feathers


the gold is ravenously reaped
from azure fields, gobbled up
from fiends with coal dust wings
claws that tear the day apart


dimming hours tick away
into shadows dancing for
glory of moonlight splendor
dilated pupils shall be taught


from the earth pours out
the souls soured from ash
and worms and biting beasts
that carry prey into the tombs


bones collect as twigs and
branches from a heavy ice
and grinding teeth sings to
sleep the sweet lifeless lullaby


foul the air that drifts upon
a torrent breeze to chill the flesh
the scratching breath of night
to growl and howl then bite


from hollowed out logs
crawl the throngs of creeps
and swarms to overtake as one
with stinging thorns and venom


spurred on these offspring
of shadows within darkest black
cackles thunder through the air
from the night hag named Eve

Unearthed

unearthed the underneath 

of retired and tiring bodies

in decay and repose

exhumed the exhaust

of passing past 

in layers of the dust

in rust a tumor toils

upon the nails 

the timeless plague of boils

to shatter shards

below flower yards

for feisty feasting roots

your sanity lost

rolled away the marbled globe

and what your thoughts may cost

here's hoping it went unused

at least from where it was found

in the front lawn's ground

for swingers

that is of a small white ball

don't make good neighbors at all

Blank

blank, the thirsty page
my eyes rest upon.
its ravenous stare
eagerly awaits the
caress of my words,
be it fingers gliding
over keys or hand
dragging ink soaked pen.


this page, the mirror
that only states what
it has been given
and reflects outward
all of what was
heaved from the inward.


each letter, each syllable,
each line laid down
to pull my soul out
and onto the table below.


there my reflection swims
in the literary pool,
an oracle of my own fate.


showing where my
shadow has blackened the
earth, my past has cast
the line and lure through
my present image in the pool
to fish the future feast.


and round it goes for
us all in words in print
and voices softly spoken,
as simply circles form
whenever my pen bends
and touches the thirsty
page with its blank...