part 3 from 'tales from friday morning'.

jonquil street and main

they say i am with strangeness, here at jonquil street and main, in
the house where lived my father, white and yellow, trimmed with
gray, sitting in my dormer window, drinking english breakfast from

an antique silver tray, they tell the children i am an evil eye,
withered to the husk, that i came home from all my wanderings,
wars where minds were lost, and brought trophies fierce and

terrible, scars to tremble men of will, and my horrors darked
my mother's joy, sent her far into the night, they say i am with
strangeness, here at number 42, and never hear me singing,

of princes and their deeds, never see me dancing, in the dining
room til dawn, though i've packed away my mirrors, draw the
curtains with the sun, i know a lover's hesitation, have felt

a gambler's daring ploy, i've run with jackals cross a barren plain,
but always turn with winter's call, back to this house, jonquil
street and main, and friday mornings come gently to my soul

the mailman

i never knew the mailman, employee of the year, wrote letters
to the editor, supported npr, took vacation in the smokies, paid
the way for eagle scouts to play the county fair, until i read

the morning paper, saw his face with other faces, towards
the bottom of page nine, looking like a fine man, smiling like
a gent, a photo took in '42, somewhere far from akron, our

fields of soy and corn, somewhere fighting bad guys, making
safe our homes, no, i never knew the mailman, before he
took the blight, found that whiskey sings a mean ole song,

full of comforts rare and strong, found that memory is no lover,
sleep's a torment never won, locked the door behind his only
boy, ran a poker game in charlie's storeroom, what a curious

little story, here at the bottom of page nine, of a man like
any other, sent his silver star to the president, with a note
he wrote with chalk, what had become of our mailman,

on this friday morn

friday

friday's full of coffee, cup upon a cup, finishing the sunday paper,
finally, to the end, and there are young smiles, born in '36, making
time with little stories, rags from days i have forgot, boys

who never knew their fathers, pups for sale, or give-away,
cooking eggs with runny yellow, waiting for the bells to call,
there are 2 chairs at my table, piled with books and clean

white socks, dinner plates are on the counter, chipped cause
ruffy wags his tail, and i wonder if the mailman will pass my
garden gate, leave me magazines come far from home, offers

that i never can afford, maybe country songs from nashville,
films from paris, france, something cousin jimmy might have
sent, but should i save some part for saturday, sad stories

from the town, a page of jokes and silly drawings, puzzles
with a literary flair, and i'm counting down the hours, til my
favorite sunday morn, and i love the smell of windex, clean

the house from top to door, shine my locks and chains, test
those fire alarms, and lordy, what a clamor they can make;
friday morning leaves me curious, what is it that i did,

yesterday?

new orleans

i'm makin' time on this ole dusty road,
headin' down new orleans way
chattin' up the gators, slappin' down the flies,
stickers hid up in the grass, thorns are in the hay,
lookin' to get passioned up, down new orleans way

Monday, morning, at the end of October.

The 3 works below, 'near memphis tennessee', 'chico's door' and 'benjy' are part of my 'dark trilogy'. Many readers of poetry expect themes of love, anguish, heartbreak or the nobility of human pursuits. All of these topics have been dealt with for thousands of years, in what seems an exhaustive manner.

Yes, yes. The great emotions, the grand exploits and the awful trials of war will never be 'exhausted'. But there's room for the dark side, as recent generations might describe. Room for obsession, domination, stalkers, and the cold relentless pursuits of those unable to feel the restraints of an ordered society.

So don't be mislead when you read love, kiss, softness, kindness. It's not what we say, but what we do.

near memphis tennessee

why are you making hoo-doo, little jamey-ray, here at the edge
of nowhere, sitting in the sun, under oak trees full of spanish moss,
redbugs in the shade, looking at the skyline of memphis tennessee

can you fashion me a lover's charm, give me nights all passioned
up? i have monies made with silver, jewels to glitter in the dark,
i would help you with your magicks, bring you herbs you've never

seen, write me a spell to turn the widows, break the locks on
beacon hill, i have a thirst for fame with glories, sly enchantments
when i roam; let me sit right here, beside you, i have a strangeness

of my own, and a fancy for these mysteries, your weavings
in the air, can i give a brother's counsel, sing some darkness in
your ear, for you've ever been an oddsome child, quick as hornets

in the grass, i watched you bury your old daddy, as the bells
said 5am, heard your momma's jolly eulogy, smelled aunt sarah's
powdered rose; yes, let me sit right here, beside you, in this

field of tennessee, you've a power rare and subtle, and i a thirst
for glory's fame; let me put my arm around you, are you
shaking with the cold? i have peace for a lad with torments, calm

so far from home; i feel a stirring in the rainclouds, there are
demons riding high, i can rid your heart of clamors, protect you
from your flesh, but why are you making hoo-doo, near memphis

tennessee

chico's door

i rather like the alley, behind el chico's kitchen door, it
has a flavor that enthralls me, scents that bring my twists
and turns, i've bought its darkness for a nickel, and a song

it is a place with special murmurs, makes a calling at
the dusk, and knows when i'm aroaming, hears my
footsteps til the dawn, and knows that i'll be bearing

gifts, will leave some alms for those undone, i'll follow
in your shadow, match your steps, slow one by one, kiss
you deep when you've gone sleeping, soft as a shudder

in the cold, and you'll have no other lover, i am come
precious to your heart, but i've a dance that can't be
broken, steps with names i can not change; i rather like

the alley, behind el chico's kitchen door, but it begs a
heavy ransom, we've a pact hard fought and clear, that
i will come with honor, praise the wars that i have won

and leave some minor token, just a bauble or a tear, or
a thing that i have come to cherish, here, at chico's door

benjy

old benjy's got my fancy, cause he winks a sly old dog, likes
his girls in pretty dresses, bows and ribbons if they will, he'll
warm some whiskey for sweet sally, rum and cola for jimmy-sue

has a cellar full of chardonnay, for he knows of life's temptations,
has learned the dollar's nifty song, found that patience brings
a day's reward; old benjy's got my fancy, and i watch his wary

prowls, follow footsteps neath dark windows, ask the jaybirds
for his scent, he likes his girls in frocks of yellow, maybe tied
around the neck, takes perfumes from lord and taylor, his

account is always full, i've a flare for his wild roamings, he's
taught me ways i'd never known, i've surprises for my benjy
a jolly cup for hard earned fame, he'll be a fabulous addition

when he finally learns my name

i watched a laddy dying, laughing as the gulls began their mourning
wail, wrapped my toes in sea salt as the tide began its hungry prowl,

and waited for the angels

evermore ?

jaffy sits beneath the kitchen table, wearing but a sock
and yellow shorts, reading hegel in a language never learned,
he is a solitary lad, and needs no understanding, fears

the sun and summer's heat, fears the passion of his mother
for his father, and the ghostey priests in bitter black,
he'll go a-romping when the stars can make some chatter,

maybe sleep up in the jackal tree, does a jolly yammer
for the sulky, hungry birds, but he sits beneath the kitchen
table, counts the toes of stranger folk, taps a mighty fine

cantata, drinks his juice straight from the jar, he'll be a
dandy lover, when his time can write its mark, he'll
maybe go a-roaming, like his granny in her youth, but

he'll always bring a proud return, a soldier from the wars,
or he may never leave his table, always love this kitchen
floor, make his peace with sol the spaniel, and sing

a child's sweet harmony, evermore

the foundling

a foundling sang within the dunes, and she stuttered
in his grey-blue eyes, tossing castanets aside
buying seasalt from the hermit crabs, to shimmer

on her lips, bribing buttery flies to pay some small
amount of homage, whispering gris-gris ballads poorly
harmonized, to bewitch and magick what days have

wrought, have meddled in her enchantment, and she
bartered with old trader john to redeem one hour,
given for a trinket and a whiskey song, for though

her samba spins a lonely pirouette, she still tastes
the fantasy spun by wailing of the gulls, and bends before
young winter's thievery, like any green and supple

lass, so dissembles day's last failure, so beglimmers
what sillied hope still clothes her, and she strays into these
sand locked tunnels, tossing her falsettos one more time

my bedroom door

there's a man outside my bedroom door, yet it's only 4am,
his breathing's grieved and rawsome, tremored like a child,
and i've bars and glamours to make my shelter, locks of rare

forgotten craft, for i can not make him welcome, will not
call his name without some light of day, he is no ghosted
apparition, too much loving of the flesh, and he's bound

himself to a liar's fabulation, cloaked in a tapestry of
strange design, and haunts the lanes and alleyways, gaining
gardens by their walls, cries in a loathsome moon voice

goes off running with the dogs, and i've seen him hid
in the old tree shadows, seen the shallow of his eyes,
do not relish his deception, give him harbor in your

care, for he's lost all that was dear to him, wrapped his
sins with a parent's hand, drinks remorse like young sparkling
wine; yes, there's a man outside my bedroom door, and

i can not say his name

untitled, #5

i've been singing with those darkling crows,

making fearsome clatters,

looking from the cloudtops at the sea

follow me

you strike my fancy, i've some quarters i can spare, toss
these dimes and idle pennies in the pot, and dawn it is
a-coming, making noises i can not bear, so follow me, to

my momma's house, cause she can hardly hear, we'll stop
at billy's fill-a-sack, get beer and salty chips, slug tequila
shooters, like poor cha-chas down on Grand, so follow me

if you like your shadows rare and tasty, my window's never
locked; i've been dreaming in the sunshine, dancing on
jocko's lawn, and i'm full-up with old longing, that will not

find its way, but first i'll warm last night's tamales, shake
hot salsa from the can, and we may clean up neath the sprinkler,
playing tag between the trees, i'll pick you yellow roses

if you'll only follow me

you've seen me

i've been kissing strangers, in the empty house on Main, but
it's full of cats and memories, smells i can not name, and i
know your momma never goes there, cause your daddy left

some shame, in the room doc eddy painted gold and blue,
papered violets everywhere, so follow me, there's fine
whoopee we can make, i know a corner made for two, i've

spread old quilts from granny's hope chest, cooled a merlot
til it's crisp, got some dandy cheese from that frenchy store,
at 4 bucks to the pound, come jabber me in whispers, leave

your smooches on my neck, i know you love my darkness,
and the shadows where i lie, and i surely can forget your name,
if you'll only ask me to, you've seen me kissing strangers

in the merry month of june

between heaven and the sea

i'm walking down mexico way, kicking rocks on this silly road,
pondering all the whoopees, and i'll be making time with gringos
serving tequila with my eggs and ham, cause i've made my day

in u s of a, jabbered with my daddy til he showed me to the door,
though i'd helped him move his lady friend from his momma's
kitchen floor, wished i'd always be his pridesome boy, but the

world, it moves with strangely steps, hardly ever from here to
there, it goes in weary ambulations, sometimes skipping like a
girl, but andy's gone awarring, jessie's in the pen, and i'm walking

down to where the margaritas bloom, they write cervesa on the wall,
maybe find an old jalopy, rusty yellow's quite the best, and i'll
toss the top in abilene, take a retread just in case, put some mad dog

in the cooler, colt 45 on ice, you know the law, it looks unkindly, on
the deeds i've left behind, but i'm a goodly boy, know all sweet
jesus' prayers, even learned some catechism at that catholic fella's

knee, and here i am, making fancy steps alongside highway number
one, going where the night just might sit easy, praising truckers, and
salty songs, on their cb radios, caught in my daytime dreaming

between heaven and the sea

benny's blues

benny's gone a-hunting, making wars on 23rd, running
down the alleyways, flairing for the scents of jelly-boy,
a cousin twice-removed, who's left his loving where his

loving should never, ever, go; benny's hunched with
a kind of madness, writing screams on every wall,
and he'll never find a stillness, some quiet for his soul,

never find a comfort in his sleep, and he'll lock his windows,
put a chair against the door, but he'll go no more to his
confession, whisper nothing in the darkness of his church

old jelly's gone and fallen, somewhere in the world, there
are ashes in the rain storms, clouds to hide the moon,
wrongness makes its quiet chatters, and benny's gone

a-hunting, making wars on 23rd, cause there are demons
left for slaying, before they write his end; yes, jelly's left
his loving, where his loving had never, ever, been

fathers

there's a man outside my window, here at break of day, and
i wonder if he's lost his son, gone roaming in the wilds, and does
he search in all the gardens on his way, does he ask the many

strangers, off fighting for their keep, if they've slain a merry
wanderer, left him lying by a road, or have they heard his silver
song, the voice of but a lad, and i wonder, in his sorrow, if

he'd stay, and face the monsters that would take me
for their own, drive the blackness from the places round my bed,
for they're filled with darkly menace, harsh muttering that

speaks in wretched tongues, and if he could only see my eyes,
he'd know that fathers stay where sons have need, where
they can bring their comforts, ease some pain and dread,

there's a man outside my window, quiet, with a watcher's
stare, and he must be waiting for the rise of magicks, for
some spells to heal his heart, and will he be my father

one more time

ordinary man, #5

let me go, i've slain your dragons, little trollop, buried
them in old man smithy's fields, covered them with honey,
so the wilder dogs won't flair their scents, covered them

with shades of fabulation, for you've been running with those
fearsome troubles, chased by lads with money in their eyes,
and you've sworn me with some oaths that i'll no longer

bear; let me go, for you've long misunderstood my poor
intent, left me with your silly hunger for the night, whiskeyed
up and passioned for a sly and devious shadow, waiting

in the alleys, walking down these dangered streets, and
i can not buy you flowers, stroke your worried hair, or
take you to a supper, or a summer fair; so let me go, cause

i'm taken up with trembles, i have no secrets left to share

i'm just an ordinary man

when

i'm quick, and rather easy, holding nothing from your eye,
i've given all my secrets to the rowdy lads, tossed my monies
in the air, so i can find my quiet shadow, for you should never

leave your bruises in the sun, they are ungenerous to a fault,
but in the dark they're little tricksters, yes, little fibbers all,
and make me full up with mysteries, worthy of a minute

from your time, and tomorrow i will be young, again,
a siren, again, pubescent scented, an anxious and
fallow field, again, summer-faced down in dallier's lane,

bare footed, bare necked, some sweat beneath your sheets,
asleep unseen beside you, and so you'll follow me,
tomorrow, and i will dance that phoenix rumba gig

in a butchy boy finale, and perhaps you'll love me,

when i'm young

sammy

are you sleeping, silly sammy, here by highway 95, lying
on the daisies, warm beneath the august sun, are you dreaming,
little fella, miles from all the city's ash, getting comforts

where you may, but i never took you for a country lad, never
knew you found some pleasures far from boylston by the bay,
or has your daddy sent you roaming, off to chase your troubles

far away, have you finished with your poker, poured your
whiskey in the fields, taken solace where the toughs may
let you hide, but are you sleeping softly, sammy, and i can not

see the rising of your pride, or hear your wildsome mutters,
what are these curious bruises, why do they steal the laughter
from your lips, so perhaps i'll keep you company, here on 95

but just until you wake, and we'll go jolly into town, one more time

an ordinary man, #4

don't sit beside her, or listen to her whispered questions,
for she's used them all before, and you don't know any
of their answers, or know where she will bind you, for

you've never learned the language of her knots, and her
gods are strange to you, holding back an anger that never
tires, never lays its head in quiet, and don't fall into a sleep

where she can find you, she knows the nature and the way
of all your broken breathing, can steal into your night with
tortures you can never bear, for you will be among her

treasures, among her many takings. please don't sit beside
her, for i cannot be your hero, if she draws her salty lips
across the blush that gives you favor, leaves her marks,

leaves you in a place that we've forgotten, that opens to
the magicks that are to her alone. don't sit beside her,
little singing fool, little jingle boy, with all your glances

unless you would become an ordinary man

and ordinary man, #3

silkie's drinking claret, waiting for the sailor boys, and the sun
to set, waiting for the dark to make her young, and the tide
to carry all the years to sea, waiting in a shadow full of

rawsome mystery, she is a flavor ripe for late night suppers,
and she'd been a ballerina, sold her whiskey at the fair,
but only when the lads were thirsty, and always gave old granny

her full and justly share, cause silkie knows her right from
left, her way around the block, she understands the meaning
of a rosy blush upon the cheek, but at the last, upon the end

of day, there's always golden claret, perhaps a chocolate
by the bed, there are mirrors and some candlelight, that
understand the life she's led, and in the corner, tightly sleeping

an ordinary man

The following is an aggregation of my 'lost' series. Here's the '?' series.

lost, riff #1

i may have lost my lover, sleeping botticelli in the dunes, or was i
confecting lime-sweet meringue to leave him quite a marvel, dollopped
but i am ahungry for his sea salt, crusty glimmers for my taste, and

there are distractions in my roaming that i never fail, that know
my poor caresses, sleep near to my night time frivols, and i can not
warm him sillied to the sun, or give him comforts to fit his riddle

ways, i am no slake to this thirsty laddy, and smile yet to the blowsy
boys on Grand, delivering fame in mocha cups of froth, waiting for
some whoopee two-steps to fill my resume, i may have lost my lover

lost, riff #2

i lost my rapture for buttery cakes, mislaid neath your window, rocking
in your daddy's chair, waving with the dahlias, besotted, little flower,
volupted with hot kisses, sillied, your loopy never-boy

days end, nights bewilder, then fail, i get ravened up with sleeping,
swallowed with some sweet vermouth, but you still want me
with your ferocious pleasures, the why of it never sings to me

it's a twisty tale

lost, riff #3

jocko sells my flowers, pulled without my care from ancient dahlia
trees, and makes coffee-whispers when i smell him smiling, what a
day full-up with flavors, were i not all loopy lost in mobile, alabam

and i can not see my window, running with these southern fellas,
stepping in their shadows, making smooches for their whiskey, and
i can not sing some sheebops, lying in these dusty places, snapping

sillies with my sly ole flying fingers, or may be i'll read
t.williams, i have a blanche they've never seen, i am a pleasure
rather rare, with treats perhaps unseemly, lost here in alabam

lost, riff #4

i'm making potions for my southie boy, dark-up from his boylston
toughies, all asmudge with streetly rambles, 'less he's lost me, where
we hide from daddy's bruises, and let the whiskey do our supper song

he's sees me with my morning shadows, hid beneath some winter
covers, laughing with those silly pixies, maybe crying for my tinker's
old despair, wondering if this dust can make me fly, 'cause i would

take my lad away, wash his feet in the salty sea, wash these tearsome
days until he sleeps his smiling sleep, 'less he's lost me, dancing down
old riff-raff jingles, searching out a fancy gentleman, or two, or were you

simply dreaming

lost, riff #5

billy-ray tells tawdry tales to my neighbor lads, those deft and dillied
gawkers, out foolishing in my yard, and takes the pennies from my
bedroom floor, slips my nickels into his shoes, finding luck where
he can find it

but he saves his silly kisses for the dawn, and doesn't hear my
whispry tales, steals his place up in my window, where he can
listen to the pixie songs, maybe sell some charms to the catholic boys,
he is a crafy lad

and loose with favors, or did i lose my billy-ray, south of cincinnati,
chasing hop-toads through the grass, or did his loopy smiling leave
me sorrow-full, driving those old backroads, dusting round his daddy's
pawpaw trees, or did we

take our fancy down to bourbon street, make a monday dawdle
for the tourists, and they might have chased us with their rum and
coca-cola, chased us to the levee where the oak trees hide the light,
and where is he laughing now

my sweet ole billy-ray

lost, riff #6

jason kisses tango sweet, and makes a twisty step at 4am, makes
a whispered-up confession from some tuesday dally, then does his
little aria from romeo, drinks his pinot dry, waiting for the summered

morning, and i lost him at the dawn, could not remember his salty
lips, forgot his silly gossips, and sat awonder at a face all strangered up
with oddness, speaking with a magicked rhyme that left me in a

quieted confusion, and why is there coffee strong and bourboned,
chattering by my bed, why do i smell my daddy's biscuits while he
sings sweet granny's song, and i lost him when i heard the jolly

neighbor lad, sitting with my jasmine, waiting for my window to
call his silly grin, and i lost him when his green eyes changed to
blue, sleeping down my sunday sassies, but where is that neighbor

lad

pastor jones

old pastor jones sat upon the railroad tracks, listening for sweet
heaven's call, he'd been singing blues with jocko and his daddy,
making syncopation with the devil's band, oh what a sunday

this has come to be, and he'd brought his homely sermons, a little
eucharistic wine, taken crackers from the catholic place on grand,
now the sun was setting, the jays were strutting with their dance,

and pastor jones was wondering if jesus would come down
and take his hand, maybe put him in a chariot of gold, would
wipe his brow all free of earthly sweat, would he take him

from the demon's clutch, but if he'd pawned his absolution, sold
his promise by the pound, could he yet purchase some forgiveness,
find sleep with the ending of the day, or would the train he felt

acoming, simply take his breath away

I'm grouping the '?' series for ease of reading - let's all celebrate the Ringing of the Bards.

?, #1

she leans across my table, my little sidewalk sally, making
oh's and singing ah's, tapping strangely rhythms, and i cannot
see her eyes, clouded by her wild, hiding in a silly place

and she makes her questions, drawing lines all full up
in magicks, and i can not breathe her rawsome mystery
why am i captured here, all bound and simpled to a boy

?

?, #2

and you've put me in a strangely place, a place of twist
and tortured angle, a prison unto myself, where i am lone,
where my voice is swallowed, whole entire, and no sound

of comfort gives me whisper, and you've put me in a
darksome cloud, full of bindings, where i am roped as
any wild and maddened thing, and you say that this is

love
?

?, #3

and who will hold me, when all my days are pawned away
careless lived, careless given with a rush of whim, when
my hours have been jealoused up, and leave me used and hungered

who will make me whispers, sliding through my loopy days
may be i'm hoarse with all my mutters, sitting through these
nights with paper cups of scotch and coca-cola, may be i'm

dancing in my old and twisty steps, sitting by my window,
singing like a romeo beside your bed, and who will remember
when i've forgotten why you love me, and you've forgotten

how to stay
?

?, #4

these are my strangely times, full-up with twist, hard in
a darkness all your own, and i'm bound by hours that have
no flow, or have i lost the dawn, loving all too well the night

when i can make my secrets, jolly with ole granny's
whiskey, and there is a window, where i can sit, where
i can magick all my famous potions, maybe throw them

at the moon, or will i lose my breathing, for you have
stolen all the airs, so i can not say your name, and can not
keep you close, you are my failing, and at the last, i may be

undone, cast into a tide that will not turn, these are my
strangely times, here at the end, you thought me champion,
upon a time, before you knew my secrets, or have i

lost the dawn
?

?, no. 5

there is a man, sitting on my kitchen floor, tucked into a
corner, tossing flour up on the air, making words that float
and make a chatter that i can not understand, and his face

is hidden by this ghostey clamor, so i can not judge his eyes,
or have his lips been kissing mother, has he brought some
solace to her days, for he must know she's buried deep in

secrets, locks her windows with the failing of her charms, she
has a craft that comes from rare and special creams, she
has an art that speaks to wayward husbands, suitors with

unseemly dreams, or does he make some pact, here in my
kitchen, will he take my coffee for his own, and have his
supper at my table, sing some ditties to blush my mother's

cheek, there is a man, sitting on my kitchen floor, or am i

simply lost
?


?, no. 6

there seems to be a man, sitting at my feet, huddled
in my shadow, speaking strangely and breathing in
a way that's backward and can not give him life, can

not give him comfort, and when i move, he does not
leave me, he is not discarded but stays within the grayness
that i abandon, and i think him full enwrapped in mutters,

and i wonder where i'll find some solitude, how i'll
gather myself in sleep, and will he find another shelter
when the sun has lost its sweet intrusion, and my shadow

lost into its hiding, or will he sit, where none can find him
and will i feed him tea and biscuits, will he drink my
coffee, at the dawn before i wake, or am i taken by silly

musings, and at the last, become undone
?

Ringing of the Bards XVI - Serial Poetry

Head on over to 'Talking to Myself' for the news, to meet the poets, to encounter new works. And to support poetry wherever and whenever you may find it.

an ordinary man, #2, or san fran frankie

frankie takes his life where he can find it, sometimes
down on 6th street, sometimes running with the
oakland boys, and sells his favors to the bankers

in the hollow, sings puccini like sir elton in his bath,
he is an ordinary man and sleeps in poor confusion,
knows that moonlight fills the night with lies and

fabulations, so he goes in search of glory, from the
dawn, from the bars and from his rooms that want
his monies week by week, but he likes a single-malt

for breakfast, rare merlots with caviar and toast, he
hoards his labels like a floozie, gathers memories
from the tawdries on the street, he would be famous

my ordinary man

an ordinary man

he was an ordinary man, and listened to the sound of his feet,
small and bare, on a bedroom floor, finding satisfaction where
the dust made little greetings, and was this a strange place,

here, where she kept her powders, spoke her little sing-songs
to the mirror on the wall, was this a magicked place, where
he could watch and make her his very own, and he'd brought her

buttery cakes, and a need to bind her passions, and strength,
to gentle her to his ways, he'd brought her rum with honeys
to leave her sweet and wanting to his ways, he was an ordinary

man, and within the day, he might be wise and reasoned, but
with the night's fall he was given over, made his dreams, he made
his watchings, savored her reflections and mastered her devices

her glamoured locks, the very walls that gave her false and
devious shelter, for they could not again deny him, could not
stay the rightness of his claims, and oh yes, he was

an ordinary man

And on a new note, if you have a favorite poetry blog, or flash-fiction blog, please leave a url behind in your passage. I may start adding links.

untitled, #unknown

i'll make a dance, here
raise my arms and shimmy
with some ella-swing
cause i'm a tasty lad
and a whiskey sour tenor
from the all-star corner choir

the ballad of a jolly lad

come meet me on the railroad tracks, down camden yard way,
in the place i killed your father, where i left him for the neighbor
dogs, then drank his warm tequila, and sang my merry song

i've been a jolly lad, since that summer day, and put my flowers
by your bed, cause you've promised me your kisses, and i've
saved some joyful hours just to see your careless smile, come

meet with me, i've a basket full of wine and chocolate, autumn
pears and berries from the spring, we can make a dance, cause
the rains have washed the ground and his blood bleached down

to white, his rumors fled out into the night, so lay your head, here,
here beside me, find your comforts where you may, and you can
feel my warm embraces, i've surprises for your longing, for this

dandy end of day

?, no. 6

there seems to be a man, sitting at my feet, huddled
in my shadow, speaking strangely and breathing in
a way that's backward and can not give him life, can

not give him comfort, and when i move, he does not
leave me, he is not discarded but stays within the grayness
that i abandon, and i think him full enwrapped in mutters,

and i wonder where i'll find some solitude, how i'll
gather myself in sleep, and will he find another shelter
when the sun has lost its sweet intrusion, and my shadow

lost into its hiding, or will he sit, where none can find him
and will i feed him tea and biscuits, will he drink my
coffee, at the dawn before i wake, or am i taken by silly

musings, and at the last, become

undone
?

susie

susie sells her socks, but only after church, down by
charlie's gate, and only to the catholic boys, cause they
have dimes and pennies, pockets full, and blushes on

their cheeks, and when the moon has slipped away, the
doors have darked and shut to strangers, she skips across
the pastor's lawn, makes her prayers, sly with promise

sly with woman twists, sings her happy patter, and hides
her favorite monies, down in the deacon's garden, scented
with old granny's lilacs, scented with some magicks that

her daddy tossed aside, and susie weaves some charms
that would leave her momma danced in pride, wickeds
up the night time airs with fabulous concoctions. oh, yes

our susie, our heart's delight

stillness defined

she's found her stillness, lost all her mutters, lost all the
bruises that had glamoured her poor charms, and pushed
the stones aside to make a bed, where no hungered and

needy lads can bring their hard devotions, she's found her
small and welcomed space, where no father brings his
riot or his whiskey longing, and no mother fails her daily

wounds