weary rise
patina soft

and light falls in
sideways

evaluation
all consideration
costs

turn mists to humid
sunrise

The curve of night
is sleeping

and beams of stars
have gathered

where happiness
lived

Inquiry by RW

I cleanly left the rectory.
I pray for souls which burn at me.
I flagellate till flesh turns free.
Dichotomy. Dichotomy.

This angel takes which road for now?
Unsure at which his knees should bow
A servent, supplicant or cow
God show him how, God show him how

A burning fills his abdomen
inside a hunger deep within
a boy pledged past to be nomen
a roaring djinn, a roaring djinn

the glow sham
curtain dreams
are sliding

drawing a breadth
where livid light
will splice

ocular transmittance
these image jaunts
fall like random whispers

snug up the buckle
suck a breath
and swift away the false
premonitions
cacophonous limp

slender wrist twitch
thrown care

from the edge of that bony hip
but I baby
dont scare

how you love
black thick
a stare of night

calamities tryst

The ghost of Ben Jonson draped itself across my troubled dreams last night
buying the rounds in a strange pub, blue mermaids and bagpipes on the juke box
angry in his critique of my style
"abandon excess and ye kill yer muse" he raved and waved the glowing green absinthe in my face.
Crazed I staggered and swayed as I pushed to defend my pace reciting odd rhymes in iambic pentameter to impress this specter of gone days
with both rough hands he grabbed my face, intent eyes pleading as he begged "use thy own voice boy"

You try so hard to be someone
then you forget what you've become.
Your day job is a constant frown,
your diadem, a leaded crown.

You strut the streets with oppulence,
yet are not paid your recompense;
you lie, you cheat, just to get by.
alone, you're broken, and you cry.

The world's a stage, but not for you.
You cannot ignore what is true:
You are a broken destitute,
at best, a mental prostitute.

Why wither, when you can regain
the treasure that you still disdain?

RED for Clara Bow (July 29, 1905 – September 27, 1965)

by Ron

Transform seeds into a plantation
spread upon the wings of the earth
a real heaven,
where these spread
to become gold
in the markets to be sold

the greenery vast
outspread
is like an angelic beauty behold,
the eye is the judge of all things scenic
long distant grasses grow
as the sun does beckon
to see
it metamorphose
as the chlorophyll turns
from green to gold
human lives to creation are sold
as they turn seeds into fodder
in the markets
to be exchanged for gold

Move your feet in dance.
Trip the light fantastical.
Laugh not when it falls.

There it sits upon on the shelf
battered and worn
once it held the thoughts and ideas
of an intelligent man

Proudly cocked over one eye
hiding the secrets
of it's owner

Given as a gift from his children
That once held him dear
what had changed ,over the years

Only the gray fedora knows
the pain,hurt and fears
it will never show

Thoughts are gone
ideas have died
and it sits within
a grave dark and cold
much like it's owner

thirty three years ago

Jub, Jube, Jubilee

Good old britania she ruled the waves,
as her children worked or died in rags.
Sailors brought back all types of goods,
to fill or feed good old money bags.

The soldiers or sailors of the crown,
were always shown to be loyally brave.
But one couldn’t say no to her brutality,
you served or died, as a murdering knave..

Once on board they’d loot the world,
good sense to show more than willing.
Those lions that were led by lambs,
surely earned her royal mint shilling.