Poetry

They watch us from hazy sunshine or the glimmers of an eerie moon. Their footsteps whisper like bat wings; their growls ripple from foggy woods. Like the sudden intrusion of sleet, they scare us with their presence. They keep us on edge all evening, embodied in whirlwinds of leaves

What lurks behind
the blue furnace eye?
What manner of creature
conceals himself there
to seethe & roar & explode
in bright violence?
Hell must have bred him
or the forge of some
molten-brained god.
Horrible is his fury,
even worse his pyro urges.

Goodbye,
You will be cold again, she said.
Fake forgotten, because I tore you with my mind –
So smart, yellow paper, you were.
I stood for the frozen tree at midnight.
Black leaves buried under two feet of clear water.
I drowned fixed in place,
Mirror to white rotted face.
Her heart beat fast under the decay smell of furs.
Skin was leather, the red lips silently apart.
Eyes were blank, fixed inward.
God, I was warm in that fur.
Of course I thought of you, dear –

Long exposed wounds pose thickly gelled;
Desiccated—stiff and tangled—scarlet stained blonde hair –
Overlays rigor mortis swelled, purple-tinted eyes,
Folded shut with crisp yellow sap between their slits –
On tattered rag doll, Dora Jane.
Oak spectators all around;
Their arms spread out with horrid awe.
Laid to wither less than bone,
A modern day Leonardo da Vinci type chef-d’-oeuvre.
Rancid Dora Jane . . . long rested;
Bowel-rot perfume dilutes a short-spread zephyr –
Surpassing a many of tongueless torso crowded all around,

Cutting deep.
Razor sharp.
To the very bone.
To the heart of me.
The blade is dull.
The pain is God.
The blood pools.
The stain will remain.
The scars remind.
The night claims me.
The darkness is mine.
Not by choice, by force.
Free will has been lost.
Choices have been made.
Handed down.
Great pain, immeasurable shame.
Afraid to live, fearful of death.
Complex, misunderstood enigma.
Self-loathing, self-absorbed.
Undeniable in my brilliance.
Stupid with irreverence.

When I offer my salt, wine and polished flint
to a wooden cross bleeding ochre, I take care

of my tremble less the gnarled wood guess my ruse.
In the South, Cathars are burning, sacred oaks

are peppered with straw dolls strung by the neck,
innocent myraids spat upon and early crops burned

for cleansing. And I can only shiver, hide
in my own cloak until the sun drops from the smoky

horizon and I light a final candle. I say farewell
forever to my bag of little dolls, dried herbs

The first woman hunted
by Jack the Ripper
was sad as wet cotton,
gray as a timber wolf
on the final night of her life.
Wet cobblestones tumbled
before her like rubble,
the shadowless alley
walling her in like a cocoon.
She was unafraid of the dark
and menace and the very cold hands.

Shaken world, torn apart,

Dysfunctional kid.
Painful life from the very start,

Born of sin, regretful in nature.
Raised by wolves, handed over to pain.

Molested and raped,
Each and every day, no matter the case.

Hollow heart remains,
Weighted down by all that you let happen.

Failure to protect me,
Forgotten mother, stranger called father,

Who are you and why?
Why did you create me,

Only to offer me up in such ways.
Was I not special, was I not worthy.

Of your love.