Raindrop

It was deep, this pit;

this pool of liquid glass.

I could see pebbles twelve feet deep

like a physicist sees simple math.

 

I slipped in while they were away.

Only my eyes for them to see,

hovering above the the placid pool,

still as leafless tree.

 

I hugged the contours of the pool,

keeping to the shade

while leaves from a Mulberry

smoothed the ripples that I made.

 

I remained in hiding

till the rain chased them off.

I emerged like a slippery serpent;

my movements slow and soft.

 

Golden leaves, my coming launched;

going before me, my armada.

Ghost ships sailing for foreign shores;

their crew, persona non grata.

 

Raindrops fell like rockets;

tears of our forgotten god,

sinking the leafy ships

the bugs had nibbled and gnawed.

 

I watched it all with my crocodile eyes,

seeing the birth of that silver mist,

which was no more that queer little tears;

children of a rain drops kiss.

 

Autumn

I loved fireworks as a child

from the moment they were lit,

watching the burning fuse

inches from where I’d sit.

 

Summer does this to the trees

when the season is old,

turning the motley walnuts

into a waterfall of gold.

 

They’re always the first to fall

before the other leaves can turn;

Summer lit the fuse

and into Autumn it would burn.

 

The burning fuse won’t rest

it races through the trees,

dropping the dogwood’s jacket

before entering the sea of leaves.

 

The hickory’s are rich

turning yellow, red, and brown

followed by the elder

whose leaves quickly touch the ground.

 

The maple’s glow like neon,

bursting brilliant against the sky;

so much beauty in one place

can only make the poets cry.

 

The reds and russets

of the mighty splendid oak

curl and drop away

as autumn throws off summer’s yoke.

 

The fireworks bursts,

taking longer than a night.

And when the sparks have finally settled,

winter snuffs out autumn’s light.

Carrying On

I tried to carry the bucket of milk

down the path leading from the barn.

My little arms were shaking

and the milk I spilled was warm.

 

The milk was for today.

Yesterday, I gathered eggs.

I broke a few of them

splattering them on my legs.

 

Tomorrow, I’ll carry a baby.

I’ll hold her in these arms.

I hope I’m strong enough by then

to protect her from any harm.

The Whinery

Forget what you know of grapes,

starting small, green, and hard.

Dismiss your faulty memories

of vines tangled in the yard.

 

There’s not grapes dangling in a clump

swelling till their tart,

plumping up with nectar

like hedonistic art.

 

There’s no flesh for you to feed on,

no seeds to fill your spore.

There’s no sprig of purple bounty

for you to feed your suckling whore.

 

There are no grapes remaining

to wrinkle on the vine,

or to be harvested by vineyards

to make your fucking wine.

 

No raisins for your loin fruit;

No feast for mice or men.

You don’t live next door to Eden.

You live where there is sin.

 

You breath it and breed it and eat it.

And still, it refuses to be a grape.

You seed it and feed it and need it.

but it feels more like a rape.

 

There are no more grapes.

The vines are slick and bare.

Like the void that was your soul,

when you look there’s nothing there.

 

The winerys are closed now.

The vineyards vomit smoke,

and the fruit you feel was promised

was just an inside joke.

Autumn

It is a moment of dreams

with a cooler wind.

When Winter’s lips

kisses summer’s end.

 

When seas of leaves

red, gold, and burnt

masquerade

what once was learnt.

 

Roses bloom

on wilding cheeks,

an autumn rouge

adding much mystique.

 

With bite and bluster,

the howling winds

cry at our windows,

“please let us in.”

 

 

 

 

The Abyss

There’s movement in the shadows,

and the sound of buzzing wings.

I can’t see the Devil’s children.

I just hear the cursed things.

 

Moving beyond my vision;

Putting their stench on everyone;

The creatures won’t cease their taunting,

and I’m fighting the urge to run.

 

Something  hairy brushed my ankle;

There’s spiderwebs in the air.

A wet tongue just licked my hand.

I nearly soiled my underwear.

 

“Die you hellish beasts!”

I scream into the pitch.

I remove my leather belt

and swing it like a bitch.

 

Darklings scramble to escape my wrath,

Breaking things as they flee.

“You won’t take my soul to Hell!

You won’t be brutally murder me.”

 

I lay about me with the belt,

crowing after every snap.

I felt like a holy knight

who’d escaped the Devil’s trap.

 

And, in the darkness I heard a click.

Were the demons packing heat?

No, it was a light switch,

putting the shadows in retreat.

 

She was an angel sent from Heaven.

She brought the light that stopped the brawl.

Then, I realized there were no demons

Just our dog trying to climb the wall.

 

I gave her a sheepish smile

like I had done so many times before.

When I dropped my belt,

the cat ran out the door.

 

She rolled her eyes and turned away

all to familiar with my crime.

Rescuing the dog away,

she simply mutters, “every damn time.”

Bebothered

She slowly creeps

on padded feet

through a folded landscape

of silken sheets.

 

She sees it twitch

and makes the softest sound.

Her ears perk up.

Her head goes down.

 

I moan just once

from sudden shock

of feeling teeth

before six o’clock.

 

I hiss and whine

and push her away.

She fights back.

She wants to play.

 

I kick out

because I’ve been bitten

and smile with glee

as I launch a kitten.

The Pantheon

It was pride

that plowed the path,

and it was long

before the math.

 

I saw them as gods

before I knew the truth,

walking amongst us

imperial and aloof.

 

Some twisted our world

to their malicious design.

Others catered to their elders

like servants bearing wine.

 

It was intended that I join them,

but the angels turned me down,

leaving nothing but the demons

to carve my cursed crown.

 

So, I watched their marches,

observed their sermons,

and I watched their schemes unfold

like conquering Germans.

 

In the end however,

their caresses were corrupt,

and when our matron passed away,

Olympus did erupt.

 

By the time we entombed father,

our pantheon was no more.

We were many broken sculptures

decorating museum floors.

 

But before I did the math–

before they removed their masks,

they were mighty gods I worshipped

who’d do anything you’d ask.

 

I had to step aside though.

I was a lost lonely god

who was really just a man

pretending he wasn’t flawed.

 

Succubus

What new toy

do you have son?

Be it an ingot, a trinket,

or a scrumptious crumb?

 

None, dear father,

your imaginings have dawned.

It’s a wily lass

with hair dyed blonde.

 

She’s fair of feature

with perky breast

upon which I lay

my head to rest.

 

My son, I’m shocked

by what you say.

You admit your toy is woman

with whom you play?

 

No, my father,

please ease your mind.

She’s to be my wife

when we find time.

 

I’m in earnest, sir,

without the slightest taint.

I’ve adorned her hand

and received no complaint.

 

My naive son,

I think you’re a fool.

Think clearly now

while your passion is cool.

 

She’s a doxy

in hooker paint.

Her breast are false

please show restraint.

 

Her laugh is forced,

her nails faked,

and it’s on a lie

that your future’s staked.

 

Look, my son,

I speak the truth.

She’s a vile succubus

who’ll steal your youth.

 

I think I see it now,

my reverent sire.

You’ve saved me from

a crazed desire.

 

Leave me now,

oh foolish dame.

For you shall never possess

my goodly name.

 

My fathers right.

You pretend to be.

We have no future–

you and me.

 

Give back my ring,

and the heart you stole.

Please turn away

and release my soul.

 

My lovely son,

you’ve done me proud.

I shall tell the world

with my voice raised loud.

 

But, please forgive me

this unscrupulous theft,

as I move to comfort

the woman you’ve left.

 

Father! Why father?

What are you about?

You’d take this harlot

after I’ve shut her out?

 

‘Ware your words,

for a harlot is to severe.

She’s a wine-soaked darling

with a lovely derrière.

 

For you, my son,

this petite flower was no match,

but for a man of my years,

the child is quite a catch.

 

Father, you’re daft.

She’s obviously a harlot.

Look upon her evening gown;

Who else would dress in scarlet.

 

I know she’s sweet like honey,

but father, fear the hive.

There’s a lustful hunger in her visage,

and she’ll eat you up alive.

 

She’ll break you mind

being naughty.

She’ll break your bank

and then your body.

 

My wary weary son,

I live just for such a day,

and I pray to God Almighty

she is everything you say.

 

I pray she tears down heaven

and breaks my bed apart.

I pray that there’s a devil

residing in her dark heart.

 

If her fiery passion stops my heart,

spare not a moment in which to cry,

Cause I can think most succinctly

of no better way to die.

Salt

WARNING: Contains bad language.

 

She pulled loose strings

and unraveled my wings,

causing effects

that damaged things.

 

She sprinkled salt

where she saw wounds,

turned faithful friends

into sneering goons.

 

I was gracious.

I bowed out

when I saw

she was having doubts.

 

But, what hurt the most

was the fear I’d see,

painted on a face

I’d just set free.

 

It was deep in her eyes

where her spark used to burn;

In a cold deep pit

filled with fearful concern.

 

She begged me not to hurt her.

I saw the irony in this.

While cracking open my chest,

she was begging me not to resist.

 

She didn’t have to beg.

She didn’t have to ask.

I was no phantom of an opera,

hiding my face behind a mask.

 

I was the man she used to love,

the father of her kid,

and I was the man who’d held her gently

and placed kisses upon her skin.

 

I was an admirer of her fashion,

a recipient of her passion,

and her slightest whim in life

was rewarded with love and reaction.

 

But now, she’s left

and I’m in Limbo,

creating dark art

to heal my ego.

 

She still tosses salt

into my open wounds,

but it’s done with less joy

and will probably end soon.

 

I suppose I should try

to hate her a little less

and move on with my life

and try not to obsess.

 

But, her boredom only means

she’s suddenly growing less amused.

It doesn’t negate the simple fact

I’m unjustly being abused.

 

She portrays me as a beast,

betrays me when she cheats.

I was wronged by a lover,

and it isn’t right that I retreat.

 

She left ME!

There’s no guilt for me to own,

and though I feel some fault,

I wish she’d just leave me the hell alone.

 

Stop asking me for assistance

when you’re living with another.

I don’t care that I’m dependable.

I’m not your stupid brother.

 

You make me oh so weary.

You keep me thinking about giving up.

And if it weren’t because we shared a child,

I’d tell you to shut the fuck up.

 

But, we do–

we do share a child;

She’s a beautiful baby girl,

and she drives us both wild.

 

So for her sake and mine,

I will continue to be civil.

I will suffer your heinous acts

even though it makes my soul shrivel.

 

It’s what we do when we’re in love.

We have to simply struggle on.

And though you think you hate me now,

I’m sure you’re going to miss me when I’m gone.

 

So, put your poisoned cup away

and save the salt for sup.

This is me being civil–

now shut the fuck up.