C'mon, fellas,
said I,
meaning that the moment
was gone, and it was time
to move along,

wrap our protests
in wilted banners
and homemade signs,
then carry them
up and over the hill,

past the mega-church,
the All-Your-Crap storage units,
the 24-hour pharmacy sitting next to
the deluxe, salty, fat hamburger joint -
all located at the intersection of

Main and Meridian, USA
where Mother Earth
once adorned her bevy of
periwinkle vines,
crimson clover,

In spring, I wake with rosy-fingered dawn,
and pen my lines as dew drops grace the lawn.
By dusk, when blood-red moon begins to bleed,
my sorrow-laden lines I dare not read.

In summer, poems pour out of my soul,
released from county jail - out on parole.
They lie, like lines of laughing liberty,
hysterical to be at last set free!

Autumnal lines may fall, but will not flow.
They rot inside me, then mutate and grow,
until I’m large with child of pregnant prose:
these still-born poems, damned, do decompose.

Silently she creeps to the corner of my darkened room,
Picking clean old pockets and the emptiness of gloom.
Her enquiring spark shakes me into bleary-eyed sight,
And pulls me from my bed, to arise in illuminating light.

The gibbous moon her fingers spread, grasping hold of earth,
Within a month she echoes her lifecycle, or a promised birth.
The ebb and flow she holds over nature and upon the tide,
To call a pack of wolves or in women’s blood does she reside?

Can I remember you any longer?
If I can’t
I will remember my first lie on you;
The loose of your virgin lips
The sight of your nakedness
Sincerity of your virginity,
When my heart is fixed
To grant your wishes like the Jehovah of the Jews.