Theatre Macabre

lower the house lights
in the broken-down theater
of a thousand tortured nights
hush the sequined crowd
of ragged clowns
and aged ringleaders
bring a soft spot
to center stage

awaken the sots
while the curtains descend
composing a backdrop
of claret crushed velvet
hear a pin drop
as I strike my pose
extending toes on one foot I hop
beginning the dance

We left because of the violence.
I thought he would kill you or me.
But a child's memory’s a selective thing.
You forgot the beatings because he’s your dad
and you love him.

You lie there sobbing so softly
my heart shatters for you.
You miss him so much, you just want a father
to fish with, play ball with, show off to your friends
you forget yours didn't bother.

Mary Joe was this couples’ first baby
After eighteen years of trying
Mary Joe was a blessing
Mary Joe was a lesson
Little Mary was beauty; with our eyes we beheld it.
That Sunday morning
Before the altar
It was Mary we were dedicating
I remember the preacher saying,
“This baby is a sign that Gods covenant with us is not broken”
Before the altar
We came out dancing
With hearts full of thanksgiving
In the offering basket we dropped our token
For we know, with Marys’ testimony, we can now keep on believing

A rhyming place for all to see
Especially made for you and me
To see if we can write in rhyme
I hope my entry is in time

This is a workshop you all know
Run by Stan the so and so
But give your best so we can see
What's rhyme to do with poetry

Just a thought, Yours Ian.T

A vein of burgundy
ebb

the dark pale blue
edge

An ache tingles
spines
and needles

fast beyond the dream
of a memory hedge

borrowed from the
rain drip ledge

divulged ecstatic
emissaries
as voilet
as Autumn

tufts of
forbidden
scars
where love
has lain

I have opened my heart wide,
like a blanket being opened above a bed.
The constant kick in synch
with the music of your words,
So soft spilling like honey in the air.
A whisper...
A floating feather,
A single cotton petal sifting sorrow
with powder and bread.

Inner beauty...
Inner beauty...
Forgive me and forget it.

There is room filled with dead bodies,
poetic pieces-parts, strewn about
like
insect wars, black and red ants.
I never know which side wins,
do you?

O the wonders of the spring
all the song birds perched to sing
a wasp just stung me on the ass
I've got to cut the freakin' grass

With flowers blooming everywhere
I've more than enough love to share
pollen swells my nose and eyes
new fire ant mounds which I despise

Ladies' fashions become spare
belly buttons and midriffs bare
along with men's knobby knees
plumbers' butts shine in the breeze

just in space..
you are the master of yourself
learning…
I the master still yearning....

after the age of seventy
one is on the footsteps of senility
and someone at seventeen on the heights of juvenility
but all is relative…

pardon me some poetry is extinct,
yet it doesn't stink

a few current ones smell foul
some bad mouth
many spoil
yet the rife mind soils
the visions of those who appreciate
and don't think random

ABOUT MAD DOGS

I am like a dog
grown mad
with hunger
sinking teeth into
carrion
holding on
not letting go

I am like a dog
In fear’s madness
crucified
to my soul
holding on
not letting go
not left behind