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Several Paces Past

Several paces past
The beginning and the end,
Comes the space wherein
We like to try it all over again;
Unsay that awful
Which was sorely said;
Get up earlier
And make the stupid bed.
Say goodbye later
And just hang a minute more or two;
Maybe life could be better,
Not this evermore darkening in blue.
Leavening choices cast
Between the close and over there,
We can render a space therein
We can go for the Happy rather than old soggy despair.
Yes, I do agree!
No, that doesn’t make you fat!
Please, of course I’ll wait for you—
You like me? Well, imagine that!

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Brussel Sprouts!

“BRUSSEL SPROUTS!”
Stomped Sally Gossamer Wingstep
On her non-existent floor,
Seems she’d flown into Jonathan’s web:
A thing she’d sworn she’d never do anymore!
As he skittered up an anchor strand,
Jonathan begged for her forgiveness;
Twas an old construction, he pled;
How he whimpered at her evident distress!
The ensnared forest fairy
Was sore mad as sour mushroom-heck,
But, she softened at his contrition;
True sorrow did she detect.
“It’s ok, Jon-Jon,”
Cooed Sally Gossamer Wingstep,
As limbs and wings plopped free:
Tis been months and months
Since she’d been on this side of the Queen’s Tree.
Offering tea and lavender,
Jonathan offered a feast with friendship;
But, Sally Gossamer Wingstep quick declined—
Maybe to share a cuppa on a future trip.
Spin soaring into the morning Sun,
Sally watched as Jonathan set to toil
Dismantling the errant sticky trap
That had caused her lightness to boil.
Off to the tribe’s market,
Sally Gossamer Wingstep continued out,
Trying to remember her shopping list…
Oh yes, Brussel sprouts!

Key Number 63/Stars and Bars

The grounds man walked up to the gate
And pulled out his Yale key numbered 63:
This day had been long in coming;
The end of a hard era of taut history.

A lost soul in Charleston
Killed nine in Mother Emanuel.
Whither go our children:
Do you seek Heaven or Hell?

The gate swung open and let in the man
Who reached up for the halyard,
And down furled came the Stars and Bars—
A breeze ripening out of the Southward.

94 thousand died under that proud banner
For their State, their God and sweet country fair—
But fairly beaten, fairly lost
With blasted angels, a long gray line climbed that tall stair.

A lost soul in Charleston
Killed nine in Mother Emanuel.
Whither go our children:
Do they seek Heaven or Hell?

The legislature cast their ballots
On the sure fait accompli
As would’ve been that final warrant
Signed by Abe Lincoln or by Marse Lee

The grounds man folded the crimson rag
Headed for a place of Honoured History;
Now wrongly tainted by hate and sorrow,
The cure a socio-psychological mystery.

A lost soul in Charleston
Killed nine in Mother Emanuel.
Whither go our children:
Do we teach Heaven or Hell?

A Better Way Out

I want to write something sweet,
I want to write tumbly around fun,
Regale through a truism,
And flourish the end in a pun.
But far I’m too angry
And hurt down to my core:
Kayla Jean Mueller is dead—
How can we bear any more?
ISIL rages in the Levant,
Slums flourish in Mumbai,
All that wasted energy,
And the Rage burning through the why:
“Love thy neighbor.”
“You don’t know my pain.”

The loss, the hurt, the Empty:
Unfulfilled, again and again and again.
Kayla Jean had a slant,
A take on a better way out,
But her candle has found the wind;
And we, now diminished and in doubt,
Try to tamp down lusting revenge;
Praying to grasp a higher view:
What did Kayla know?
What are we going to do?

The Granite, The Bouquet, and The Sad

The light followed the star over the hill
As the fog rolled in with the cold
Twas a different kind of Christmas story
At least as far as I remember what I was told

A deep abiding affection afflicted the old man
And finally had the means to fulfill a promise
And many, many lonely miles he did trudge to deliver
A last bouquet of daisies to lay before his one fair miss

In younger, luckier days our man had paid fervent troth
To she who now dwelt in yon granite sarcophagus,
But a wrong spoken word had ended it all forever;
Such a piteous loss as to be endured by any one of us.

But our Vanity is a grievously jealous mistress;
And he could not, would not forgive, the slight by his true love.
Such tragedy our old man had scripted in a cold bile ink,
Disparaging of her and placing his wounded veil above.

Carole, the second beauty born of Marble Falls
On one lank Christmas Day between the great wars,
Loved above all Nature’s beauties the blue daisy—
She would fill her Mother’s pots, trestles, and jars.

Silas, our poor fool from a far crescent city east,
Would bring bouquets of blue daisies to ply his troth,
And won her heart, and a date sure was firmly set—
What could possibly set aside such as this Love’s oath?

A sorry, sad mistake came to undo our lover’s story:
Carole observed unartfully our Silas over harsh tone:
As blasted to the quick, Silas cast off his cheery mantle,
And demanded keenly by Carole to be left forever alone!

Oh, Silas! One word passed without art has chilled thee so?
And bereft of her future, our shaken Carole turned to leave.
Only alone, later in his poor ivory tower of hot wind and pride
Would he see his error and allow himself to grieve.

Carole, the second beauty born of Marble Falls,
Would later, at last, marry fairly well, if not too grand.
Silas, alone, tended to his vanity and found old age,
But twas Carole to first find her final rest at Death’s hand.

Silas, hearing of Carole’s passing, fell slow to his knees
And swore a prideless oath to take every Christmas Day,
In honor of Carole, his cast-off joy, a last birthday gift:
A simple arrangement in a pristine blue daisy bouquet.

The light faded over the hill after the star found its new home.
The old man had placed his bouquet when his heart beat its last.
The fog blanketed the granite and the bouquet and the sad.
Is loneliness the grand prize for a wrong word lost to the past?

Not all Christmases are all tinsel and cheer—
Silas and Carole speak to us in more mature themes.
Please, this Yule, find it inside you to forgive and forget
Or woe may scuttle your fonder, finer, future dreams.

[Shikoba]

Oops

O, what howling winds blew through this abyss.
The vaulted vacuum where once grey and white matters
Did grand calculations and cogitated on great thoughts.
Plans made. Recipes deciphered. Memories stored?
Now.
Nothing.
Just a great galloping gale upon which one
Could hear, just barely hear, if given the feeling that
Some small something might be learned from
This breeze in the bottomless confines between bone pillars
Of insignificance—a little message—
One could, might maybe hear:

I’m so sorry, sweetie. I’ll never forget our anniversary again.