Scimitar Draconid

(a poem in anticipation of Halloween)

The sun set, surrendered
to a sliver
crescent moon
glinting silver
through October sky.

Cut from the dragon’s head,
stars tumbled,
left brief ghost streaks
of their blood.

Far below,
breath boiled
over a man’s left ear
as he walked,
the visible trail
of half murmured thoughts.

He ducked inside,
peeked out the window,
cursed the semaphore
of exhalations
which led to his door.

All night he washed his hands,
wary of God’s raised blade,
nervous of the only one
who could safely kill,

no questions asked.

Posted for @dVersePoets Open Link Night


He Thinks He’s an Artist

The cool walk of rain
across the field
with its countless feet
blue buzz reciprocal blade
whining shriek as it cuts
floor boards
water and blood in wooden boxes
tung oil smooth sealed
paper umbrella
sways over
departing figure
from farmhouse
no one sees or knows
the effort involved
the weight of the body
so many pieces
neatly disposed

This fractured bit of macabre for @dVersePoets Open Link Night. Posting there at 2 p.m. CDT.

A condensed, clearer variant, or at least one interpretation:

artists, ghouls,
shoot poses
of the dead
they rearrange,
sometimes reassemble.

In a Richer Vein

The maladjusted sheep
took a poll among the wolves
who said she’d do much better
if she rested on the ground,
four hooves in the air.

She agreed with their assessment
then laid down in repine
and occasionally repose,
waiting for their breath
to weigh upon her ear.

A life of grazing got too boring
so she let their perfect teeth
slice the iron of her blood.

As she lay there dying
she remembered Michelangelo,
how he saw the angel in the marble
then carved to set it free.

For dVerse Open Link Night #114

Mount Sinai

The gray smoke diction
of a fired gun.
A lifetime’s sentences
end in spattered points
of blood
then trailing exclamations
and question marks.

A single bullet
contains countless vagaries
of deflection, distortion
and fragmentation.

It thunders once from its cloud
and writes a soul
in shorthand on a stone
for readers to interpret
as best they will
the words of any god.

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub’s Open Link Night #45.


Stage Left

The sun was too bright,
the clouds too puffy.
A susurrant breeze
strummed the grass
with too soothing
a melody.

A sharp struck blow
and groan,
blood fans out
in a mist,
runs in rivulets,
settles in pools.

An hour till sunset
and the sun hangs low,
longing to disappear.
It was too lovely,
its arc across the sky
demanded a response.

Four poems in one post

My tongue creased
by a paper arrow,
I lick
the envelope flap.

The iron taste of blood
seals my words.

I saw the turn
of her ankle
and made any excuse
to say hello.
Now we sign
the document,
the happiest
we’ve ever been
to sign away our lives.

I spin the globe
upon my desk
and land a finger
on Kathmandu.

Beneath distant mountains
the buzz of humanity,
a foreign tongue,
tiered and domed pagodas,
curious spices, the sprawl
of a city so vast.

I fall headlong in their midst
No one notices
another Western tourist.

Dusting myself off
I begin a new life.

A gray business suit,
he sits
at a translucent desk.
a top and four legs.

He spreads papers
to hide behind.
He thinks of fig leaves,
then the apple.

Always hiding
even when fully clothed.