Of days of old, the harpers sing,
of Melegrond, their fallen king.
The time the Calotans were wronged,
and gathered they; a sullen throng.

Naught would lift their great sadness:
as one, they wept in brokenness.
In sullen quiet, silenced, stood
as Nature likened to their mood.

unable
to perceive my own light
whilst in the glow of infinity
I separate my essence into the darkness -
call upon that which I am not -

exist within
illusion-and-a-score of appearance

so I can experience self

and I purposely forget who I am
as it profits me not to know

but, in the stillness of reserve
deathly calm and mute
where quiescence holds solitude
and soundless hush
would resound
with cacophonic clarity

I hear my absence
.

Lying in my bed,
Darkness all ‘round,
A million thoughts pass through my head,
With an eerie lack of sound,
Visions of little consequence,
A homesick mans faded friends,
Lost lover’s stroll by in a motley of shame,
Sights that make no sense,
My waking dreams that do not end,
Sleep comes now,
A shadow grudgingly embraced,
Dawn is just ‘round the bend,
Night follows dawn with unseemly haste,
To bring me back to where it began.

Zachary J. Eakin

slickfest
from the dark heavens
coiling on nights arms

juicy dream while my
pulse waits on trigger finger

I think of you home
and swallow all the pain

CANTICLES AND CANTICLES

Canticles and candles
litanies sweet to the ear
incense like a serpent
dancing in the air
the holy kneel in prayer
mesmerized by the magic
murmuring of mysteres.
“Kyrie eleison”
“Lord , have mercy.”
“Miserere Domine”
“Lord, have pity”...
for we fear.

a wordsmith
true

fluent in argument,
disdain, and the king's English

humorous and entertaining

yet, wryness, wit, and whimsey
(adorable little playskool tools that they are)
cannot, in and of themselves,
construct substance

a wordsmith
fine
but as far as being a writer,
we respectfully decline
to offer a bid

that being said,
it's apparent you've been called
but regrettably
not chosen

Hanging paper…

They hang paper from white washed bill boards,
then string their words together like barbed wire.
Allowing them to ingratiate all subliminal hordes,
trapping those with an awareness in it’s quagmire.

The leaders have rolled inside their cosy webs,
finding comfort as opposed to our terminal terrors.
We as citizens are but numbers, treated as plebs,
blown around on big brothers wind like feathers.

PROSE ABOVE ..removed
POETRY BELOW...remains

There is some reason
for all kinds of madness
some remain dormant
some explode elephantine,
but the fun in remaining anonymous,
lies in the fact
those women call me Honey
and
men take liberties and call me Lovely.

We'll go back to the beach one day,
and I hope that it won't be too long,
to watch the sizzling tourists lay
while listening to some sixties song.

In the salty surf we'll splash and play
then stroll along the wide boardwalk
just as we did on our last stay
when we'd pause and quietly talk.

We'd watch shadows creep out toward the sea
when evening breezes came around
as we sat upon the balcony
taking in the gulls' sad sound.

Without absorbing too much time
I've a mindset way, too stuck;

I've seen reality bite much, harder
than it's second cousin, "luck".

I've seen pagans stop, and pause to pray
wishing the day was gone, and done;

myself, I'd merely float high in the sky
where I'd burn forever, in your "sun".

Plus, I wouldn't have it any other way
it's all good, it just plain, must be;

for, I'd spend forever and a day
if you'd please save the last dance, for me.