Deity

Poetry is that 

Power which keeps 

 

Withdrawing while staying 

Ineffably within 

 

Reach. 

 

 

 

Supplicants Before The Slopes Of Mt. Ithome

 

Though almost drained of the will

To persevere, take notice— 

 

This steep rugged holy mountain an ancient 

Blind bard once described as “ladder-like” climbs 

In rungs to where the air is still 

 

Alive with daemons 

And spirits 

 

Who have not yet exhausted 

Their last breath to help you 

 

Ascend there. 

 

 

 

 

 

How To Begin Your Day, Vassal

Preoccupied only 

With observing how 

That nameless red- 

Breasted twittering 

 

Little bird has perched 

On a limb of the strawberry 

Tree in our good lord’s garden 

 

And is nibbling away 

At just those berries ripe and fit 

Enough to be set before a king. 

 

 

 

 

Alzheimer Twilight Vignette

This in which he 

Ends up smashing all 

 

The light bulbs left lit 

In that inner sanctum 

 

Of his he thought he had 

Remembered 

 

To switch off before 

Falling asleep.

 

Portentous Local Murders

These crows usually 

Like nothing better 

Than to fly 

From house 

Top to house 

Top but most times they 

Prefer to stay cackling 

Out of the way high up 

In the old bullet-riddled village 

Clock tower that miraculously 

Still keeps striking the right 

Time of day—whenever 

That happens, all common- 

Place hell breaks loose, 

And the birds scatter 

Helter-skelter.  That's when

I like to think the few remaining 

Villagers old enough to remember 

Flash back to those murderous 

Three days of civil strife that sent 

So many souls shrieking 

To the depths of the underworld. 

 

Just like their predecessors did 

More than half a bloody century ago, 

The birds soon return to the bell-tower, 

Where they continue to crow.