Through the darkest blue of midnight
I see the winter of life's song,

I hear the sweetness of a melody
in a time that is all wrong;

I can hear off in the distance
a knowing tune that whistles, free
and, I can hear a song that's wrong, you must agree.

Notes are played, by memory
while not adhering to the score,

I hear a tune that waits for no one
for those who wait, on the dancing floor,

hard-ass bleachers

stranded in the bleachers
show is playing out

batter in batter’s box
pitcher winding up for the throw

get that ketchup off my hotdog
smother it with mustard
hold the onions, too

ball twists its way to the plate
batter swings and misses
umpire says, “Strike one!”

crowd is restless
I order another cold one
pitcher’s smug grin
reads catcher’s signal
and throws once more
umpire says, “Strike two!”

On this cold clear winter night
when three quarter moon holds sway
and casts on all a bluish light
almost as strong as break of day

Out in a terraced open field
uncovered patches now are seen
for the snow's begun to yield
uncovering the clover's green

Trees, unlike when they had leaf
as entities in the forest stand
by white they're given sharp relief
like marchers in a jumbled band

The Dark Forest

With a rucksack full of presents I set off to see my Gran
Never thinking of the road that lay ahead.
Wandered down the track; then bolted, I ran and ran and ran,
As a voice hissed "you'll be found tomorrow; dead!"

I stopped inside a clearing, clutching tight my ragged coat
And realised that I was lost and cold.
Before I could move on, a monstrous weasel grabbed my throat,
Hissing "When will men prize life instead of gold?"