With angled limbs
so elegant, so graceful,
the widow spins
a tapestry of silk
to show her guests.
Her delicate legs
dancing upon her house,
she invites over
a neighbor.
She greets him,
and the visitor
is captivated.
The widow enjoys her neighbor’s company.
O poor poor Skeletor!:
the beanpole homeless soldier
will soon outgrow
the olive flack jacket he wore.
I came across this in a notebook the other day. I am posting it mainly so I can recycle the notebook paper on which I had written it.
O imaginary lover!
You exist only in dreams,
silent films showing
in my spinning head.
Your skin is ghostly white,
transparent,
translucent,
now opaque.
O imaginary brother!
You exist only in memories,
documentaries being filmed
in my thinning head.
Your arms are ghastly wide,
intransigent,
transcendent,
now opaque.
O imaginary mother!
You exist only in here,
paltry poesy written
by my shaking hand.
Your skin is ghostly white,
translucent,
transcendent,
now opaque.
This fragile foliage, fulgent in hue,
Glowing a sun-burnt orange,
Lies dead and departed among
The ashes of my cigarette.
This dried husk harks the dusk
That drives beasts, large and least,
To constellate, earth-bound,
In hibernacula
Bound in earth, underground.
This deep dusk, darkening, harkens
a blue gloaming on sun-spun earth,
Wherein welkin-borne cat’s paws
Swipe and scratch like tigers’ claws.
Thrown afloat from my skiff,
I drift upon flotsam flung
Far into the foaming sea.
I paddle my legs homeward,
A haven from my voyage,
Toward my true Penelope.