Gathering Rain

That drops, falling and gath’ring, shud find it not
But nature to enjoin, while man, tho’ he ought
Follow suit, certainly falls in every way
Known– joining indeed! Though enjoining? ‘Tis nay.

Take, for a show, that act call’d matrimony,
A catcher of dreams from the West, made holy
By men in crown. More holey I daresay
Than the whole of their subjects pockets fray’d!

Or words of puppets made sweet to gain a vote,
With the bitter tail of poor poetry rote.
Once wrote, is not the hand quick to set aside
The quill, no more a part than a butcher’s blade?

Truly, the sin of man is not found in fall,
Yet in falling apart, as Autumn’s wind all
The leaves does separate, we gather not
enjoin’d, in parts succumb’d to drops–we rot.

A Difficult Night’s Sleep

Dusk, expansive as your eyes, blinks.
A door opens wider letting in rapidly vanishing stars,
And you, at my side, lay in repose.
A chalice drawn behind a veil
Bodes a tearful night.

The shouts of neighbourhood dipsomaniacs
Cut dumb by silent echoes,
Are matched by the beat of a sick dog’s tail.
The air, laden with compunction
Threatens to collapse.

Then – a gasp! A bloodied sky lulls me to your side,
As you arise.

Stillborn

I found you once in adultery, next in shame.
A flame has no place in this cold.

A row of gentlemen lining up
Under the cover of night beside death

Closer coming they to the breath that burns
Than I, naked in this northern wind.

All these people, roaming from home to home
Waxed and weaning,

Into a life of candle passing candle passing…
As only amphibians know.

Skin peels back to bleeding thistles,
Cracked as ice in sadness,

Joints swollen to the size of a poet’s head
Which snow burns dark.

It is not the flame, the fire
But the burn that reminds me

Of insufferable you and how much
I need you to live.

Lady of the Night

I am jealous of the brave ones

who know well how she smells

the lady of the night,

and can distinguish the subtleties

of anguish, of despair.

While pusillanimous I here

can’t stand to be alone,

unable to discern

a friendship from an implement,

resignation from wait.

When they do it, everyone turns

to marvel at their guile;

they make me want to spit,

what with all of their confidence

such beautiful sculpture.

Outside, a mint plant that won’t thrive,

envious of fast-growing

clover, expanding, choking,

veils its few tender leaves, slowly

withering in the shade.

Once, I tore at the attacker-

a true mint-Messiah-

only to discover

would-be disciples are best kept,

at least some what, in the dark.