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Lunch Returns

Surly ambiguities interrupt lunch
A brutish gust
Thumps the back door shut
Window shutters stutter an eerie rattle
Goosebumps rumble
Familiar hands blind blinking eyes
Whispers re-arrive
Hands sweat
A noose restricts
Nabs last breath
But
I will not fear death’s trace
Slips though blue(ish) lips
Again
Another day escapes
Lunch returns
Amen

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Sylvia Plath Tribute

Another one of my favorite poets. I like the way her words move lines, and her lines move image, and her repetition, which I like, tattoos her work on your soul. For who ever checks out this, I thought it would be a good treat. I hope you enjoyed.

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The They Conspiracy

They sprinted away from the railway bridge.

Twisting passenger cars seemed froze in mid fall;
Buckled steel,
Bent iron,
Screams, muted in a naked moment of realization;
Vomiting, unwanted – unprepared for – understanding.
Witnessed seconds before unimaginable – change.
But,
THEY – won’t care about this observation.
_____
“Who were, ‘they?’” the wolf will ask.
“What?”
‘You said, ‘They sprinted away from the bridge.’”
“Because hell was falling.”
“Not why, but who? Who sprinted away from the bridge?”
“The sheep.”
“Sheep?”
“Yes, sheep.”
“It’s hard for us to imagine sheep sprinting.”
True, that was my thought, unless, they were wolves in sheep clothing. Now I’ve seen wolves sprint. What do you think, Mr. Wolf?

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Rain Again

Third day dawned – dingy damp,
Seasoned sad – a poor time – trapped,
Half smile – strained – a toothless gap,
‘tween April’s breast – of beauty drained.

A bad place – bald – of fortune – pained,
Rain again – it rained again,
Rain again – it rained again.
Morning mourned – in coveralls.

Tractor groaned – in low gear – crawl,
Third day dawned –
Dingy Damp –
Seasoned sad –
A poor time – trapped.
A half smile – strained,
It rained – again.

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For Easter (Spring) From Different Perspective

I hate the season

That grows between

Frozen beards from winter’s treason

And

Summer’s sizzle with heat so mean

I can’t even say its name

I hate the odor

That screams from green

April’s warmth stalls winter’s motor

And

Summer’s drizzle defeats a dream

I can’t even say its name

He rose again

And breathed once more

And freed my slaves

From Hell in scores

Proclaimed my death

And slammed my door

I can’t even say His name

I hate the trouble

When blooms explode

And ice sheets warm to shallow puddles

And

Tadpoles turn to frogs and toads

I can’t even say its name

I hate the season

That lets you know

Jesus lives and is your reason

And

I with demons have got to go

I won’t even note His fame.

But,

He rose again

And breathed once more

And freed my slaves

From Hell in scores

Proclaimed my death

And slammed my door

I now have to say his name

I’ll bow my knee

And must proclaim

He is the Lord

That rose again

And

I am defeated

In the spring

When blooms explode

And He

Is King.

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Brown Recluse Writer – The Poem

In dry rotted woodpiles behind warm sheds I hide inside disorderly threads glimmering light.
My venom’s dormant – undisturbed in isolation, unthreatened, until – you know, until I’m disturbed.
Unlike most web weavers, of which I am most, unlike –
I only leave my lair at night;
To hunt and peck,
And cast my snare,
And track and trap unknowing fare,
And make minds mine
With rhyme and lines
Rapped error tight
With crispest sight
Where fight won’t tread
And shells of dead who read – remain piled high,
Behind sheds shackled with disorderly threads,
Of where I hide.

____________________
For dverse Poet’s Pub Open Mic Night.

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