WETLANDS

In the early morning hours
a dank gray mist
slowly makes its way
from the everglades
just two miles away..
The waters of the canals
and lakes begin to stir
in ominous wakes
that gracefully dance
toward the shore
slowly and silently
hiding death's fury.

Life in the everglades
returns to the place
of its beginnings.
It is mating season
vicious and deadly
to all living things.

tinsel of winter
like the hush shiver delivered
in a gust...
the wax wrapper ghosts
rushing off in their meander
an oblique track
on a grey sidewalk sidewinder
rush
Visions of you
your rage stamping in
the slush

Bequile eyes with their
_X-ray hues
flared like soaked
dark mirrors
spun with silver

the shiver of the new
your hard pressed body
rib taut and hard luck
bought

There’s a river of lava flowing toward an island in Hawaii called Pahoa. Islanders fear the imminent danger approaching, stare at the smoke in the distant.
Nearby islanders, unaffected by the destruction, watch in horror as the lava slowly sometimes faster destroy businesses, homes, vegetation and the main highway.
Islanders not in the path of this natural disaster are blocked from entering Pahoa while those living there are allowed pass construction barriers and police presence.

They saw me as cold silver,
not hot enough to heat
then in the cauldron of flames,
hotter than sun did they heat
and out of minced meat
they created a genius

the credit goes to them
for casting silver,
tomorrow’s gold in a frame
where we will be held,
till we are old
then archived
then nature will submerge
then years hence beyond imagination
of a passing phase of time
someone will unearth the frame
paled, cleaned then polished
and some day
one day,
they will all say
a poet passed this way

But as on the threshold of time
along a cliff I stand waiting
a breeze stronger than my knees
till then will poets withstand a poetic hand
and within the blinking of an eye,
we all will be blown into the tunnel
the poet still calls
Time.....
time has not yet come
but twill!
till then let’s all remain sublime
till its time...

turmoil
moist the shaking
bold the line
bite the lip

a fat fusilade of falling
snow
thick as ash
falls
upon the lashes
the dark gloss locks
the town face blank
in shinning windows
an empty clock

merriment
turns the key
and winds the
coil bound
release
the trigger
a whirl
in the winded swirl
the pathway
they follow down
through the
pressure
like precious scars
like the world hidden
from the eyes of
the stars

We all have to pass
one day some day
through that corridor they say
tis only a few moments in times away
some day one day..

Thanks for your good wishes
for the passing soul
as she traverses the universe...
and
now only a lasting memory does stay

.A CANCER PATIENTS LAST WISH!

I dream for those who are on cancer beds
struggling for a wet cloth
to moisten their dehydrated tongues
and dried up palette

Epilogue Number Four

This has been a trying time
many heads without bodies in the city
and horrid rumors of Mog intertwine
Macwell's hotel up in flames
murdered by Creel lacking pity.

Creel's murder trial is underway
in court I’ve testified under oath
evidence and facts on display
in an affidavit I wrote.

Off on an adventurous trip to America
to write a memoir this horror—murder case
had enough of this town and its headless murders
Sure glad mog scare was just a hoax to save face

wake in the drab
the heartdrub deep
and finger through the ashes
coating the long hair
uncombed
next the face
the shirt

grieving

recieving

when you ever thought it was enough

the merrirment
runs off
hang about the old grounds
a ghost
singing the songs
while the bridges burn
when will anyone learn
or does it matter

will their wings carry
them aloft
their becon halos
showing them the way

"I'm supposed to be the FIRST knight!
I want to sit by Guinevere!
What does it matter that Arthur isn't here?
It's a bit inconvenient
to bed my Queen
and Elaine
and...oh I forget...

I'm supposed to be brave
and handy with a sword
crafted muscles hewn
like welsh granite saved

I wasn't considered
worthy of attention by Monmouth
Gwain got all the plaudits first
mere crumbs, perhaps a footnote
in passing legends thirst
for Gothic revival

Ive been scared to think as of late
Dream of things I love and want
It seems so much more to contemplate
Impossible to formulate

I have you now
Were together
Yet there's questions on my mind
The biggest one will you stay forever?

But perhaps not the biggest
Its a gateway question
Too afraid to pull the trigger..
Would you stand on an alter at our precession?

If I gave you me body and soul
Pay this hefty toll
I'll be right here thick and thin
Follow you straight to hell then back again