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Editing - draft

My Birds of The Weather...

Blue sky, a minute ago
Fleecy-white clouds
Gentle breezes lifting the hawk
Gliding silently out of sight

Sparrows flicking across a grey vista
Brown little bodies, adjusting constantly
Wagging stubby tails and blurred wings
Making secure nests against the Autumn chill

Birds on the wires, huddled close
Flakes of snow tucking heads under wings
Starlings like darts in the crosswinds
Speeding bullets to warm barns and spilled grain

The cursed heart

My sun rises
My Moon falls
Hollow hearts cannot

The seas rock
The Sky sores
Trapped by my ores lock

Trapped by unforgivable light
No reflector for my sender
Everlasting light yet eternal blender

Forever in-sequence
Thy rusts stainless cords
Polar love the moon and the sun

The never-ending seas
Thy un-graspable heart
Denial shall blood flow

I a shady sight
You the sketchy sky
The everlasting cords
Shall never lie

You the Wicked

Well, I sleep the nights to myself.
This existence is nothing without you.
This moral coil may as well be dust,
You be the ashes to my smoke,
Isn’t that the same thing?
No, one lives on-
The other ki/lls the first.
I be the (silent) blight.
It -stalks- you in the hour of sun
This green lady of envy tore you a/p/art,
Caught me in its web.
They call me the wicked witch,
But it is you who were the cruel.

Dried Up

Forests and fields like crumpled paper
Flame up at a bolt of lightening
Or a carelessly tossed cigarette butt
Children rub sticks and death play with fire

Smoke adrift perks up all awareness
Animals run erratically
-Autumn disaster – lives come to end
The fields so welcoming, now gone as
The trailer leaves town and looks so sad
There is nothing left but a black hole
The beloved lives that now remain
Watching the cherished birds fly away
Everything, so lovely, has dried up
-Ugly as a blood thirsty werewolf

A Ghostly Scene

That’s a red eye I see?
They call me delirious.
The morals are immortal today.
We all live forever, but
the gh~ou~ls more so.
Rows of nothing but ^bats^.
What a sight to see.
They say I’ve lost my
Is it me or are we all crazy?

Midnight Road

I once walked down a midnight road
Heard a croak from a single toad
Fires burned out on that night
Erratic bats in flight
Saints burnt down in the streets of old

The House Waits (October Contest)

The glamour is fading - not a minor concern.
The spires stand rigid and tight. Porch
cushions can't disguise they're a
mound of dead flies. The scent
of pie is too spoiled to lure.

The House down the lane
is trying so hard to
draw the wary and
keep the scary

is a hunger
for innocence and
terror. The spirits all
restless and cursed. So angry
at life and the living they abhor,
eating souls is what quenches their thirst.

Killing the Jungle

no matter
who owns it now
the trees are falling
lopped off by huge machines
(steel has no fondness for life)
wipe out the great lush green jungle
to put in a road and a pipeline
communities are killed by greedy men

Autumn in Five Pieces

The tomato plants performed well this summer past.
Fruit given up weeks ago, the dead,
dry stalks are waiting patiently for the pruner.

Now cold, the lake receives a woman wanting
a final baptism before winter comes.
The sweet sting of goose flesh raised in the crisp air.

Canada geese are flying south -- their clarion honks
trigger deep response in those that raise their head.
A chorus of complex emotions ripple out in their wake.

On Halloween

Scarecrows and bowls,
pumpkins in a row,
scare away the dead,
wiping the air they left.

We are visiting haunted places,
watch out for undone laces!
In late October we stroll
through the neighbourhoods that roll
kids in costumes and trick or treat,
afraid of just a heap of meek.

I thought this was for fun,
just a game for the children to run.


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