A Spell of Evil

To all of us who have noticed that

Evil is live spelled backwards,

And to those who have not,

May we all live for the day

Evil becomes nothing

So much as its pale

Reflection in the mirror,

Duplicated to the letter,

Save for that most common

Ultimate one which insists

On remaining with its head

Twisted curiously

Looking the other way.

Mulberry Trees Taken by Storm in Winter

Startled

By a tremendous

Wave of starlings alighting,

Assuming shimmering myriad

Leaf-like shapes clinging to branches

Unnoticed because they were bare—

Now a thrumming insistence

Too wondrous to bear.

Paradise Lost in the Onslaught

Those halcyon days of yore?

So old they now seem

To have never existed before.

"One of Those Things"

I know they are nothing

Out of the ordinary,

Uninspired words we find

Ourselves saying when

Something common-

Place happens, which

Happens so often,

So why

Are we at a loss

When they no longer appear?

Advent of Spring

blue wooden

gate creaking

open to a green

Village Hearth in the Dead of Winter

1.

Home was where

The few dying

Embers of the olive

Were always warm

Enough to warm

The cold, weathered insoles

Of our shoes

Before we trudged

Off to school.

2.

School was where

The teacher kept warm

By thrashing us

With an olive stick

When the answers

To his questions

Were not what he wanted

To hear.

3.

The first flowers caught

Rearing their heads

Through the snow

Were always wild

Yellow crocuses in early,

Early spring.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on the Unamused Muse

Don’t you read me loud and clear,

You foot-dragging, lifeless

Klutzes cluttering up my rear?

I said it’s deadline time!

Okay.

Now, take one final step forward,

Put your lives on the line and please,

Please don’t make me repeat myself,

Do I make myself clear?

Moderator’s comments: I don’t know about you but I find Cinquor’s tirade against deadbeat poets totally uncalled-for because it oversteps the bounds of poetic decency; after all, where would our muse be if it weren’t for that long illustrious line of bootlickers waiting their turn to grovel at her feet—or should I say feat?