Thursday, June 30, 2016

Wing Of A Moth

Wing of a Moth

Your kiss
hangs like a moth's wing
on the wet cheek of night,
a flight interrupted, a life
separated from its whole.

It knows
all the tyranny of gravity,
this caress you cloak in air;
the past is loudest when it whispers,
aching where it smiles.

Miles after dreams
I walk soar swim,
miasma'd in a sigh, stumbled
at a stile thrown across the

where pink-nosed ruminants pull
and chew your weedy lies, sluice
them stomach to stomach
til they drop to show
the truth they always were.

Bright bell of the sun,
ghost of a moth's night shadow,
wild bloom and weed
flower, fly and ring;

between we two wings
let us have lift once again.

 ~June 2016

posted for    real toads

Moth  © Amelia Fletcher, via internet
Weeds and Flowers, by John Henry Twachtman public domain

Sunday, June 19, 2016



We don't discuss which one is blacker
the starstrewn night or sister death
balanced here on living's edge.
Death has no moving moon
no firefly's strobe,
still we say she
comes all this
way with

~June 2016

posted for   real toads

Images: Untitled by Zdzisław Beksiński, fair use
Deadlight, © joyannjones

Sunday, June 12, 2016



Monday's child consumes her face,
Tuesday's child is lost in space.
Wednesday's child's not what he seems,
Thursday's child's a drug that dreams.
Friday's child works hard for her money
so Saturday's child can steal it on Sunday.
And the child that's born on Black Sabbath day
buys the blind bride a ring, then walks away.

Banker, oilman, Blackwater sniper
dance before the unpaid piper.

~June 2016

posted for   real toads

Optional Musical Accompaniment

Image by Edward Gorey, via the internet
No copyright infringement intended

Saturday, June 4, 2016

The Bastard

"Hey babe, what's in your eyes?
I saw them flashing like airplane lights.
...What's that laughing in your smile?
...If that's your love, just leave me blind..."
~Jagger-Richards, You Got The Silver

The Bastard

It wasn't enough
performing for the
shell-game professors
and small-time grocers
you called family.
O no.

It wasn't enough
to scrub your drawers,
peel your cow's-tongue,
wait graveyard tables
to feed the child.
O no,

you had to call me
'an authoress.'

A bastard could never
belong in your world
unless it was you.

 ~June 2016

posted for real toads

Image: Tables for Ladies, 1930, by Edward Hopper  Fair use via