What I seek here is as a writer astutely commented “it was the pure breath of God playing on
Human heart strings” where better to start than an instrument that is played in such fashion
Solely by the wind its name is from ****** the Greek god of the wind my changeup calls for the
Wind of the one true God my line in lost friend not a person but a great black oak that grew on
A California ranch for over a hundred years in a storm it was destroyed the lines read this way
Two divergent seeds the ground did divide one of wooden grain the other flesh and blood
Their branches throughout the community do abide as charming as church bells ringing touching all the
Flesh and blood pertains to the ranch family that was so honored by this majestic guest all those years
That’s what I am speaking of bells are associated with the Aeolian harp because their sound is carried on
The wind crisp and clean without contamination this is written that we might prepare ourselves and
Have the pure spirit blow across our souls and from it have a better year ultimately a better life first in
These examples we will move closer to the Aeolian harp you will see this isn’t just living but its
Excelling in the richest spheres our lives can and must strive for this magnificence we are not
Just here just to expend time and enjoy ourselves we are to be in pursuit of a great and eternal
Reward there are many stratus of life others are in earthy terms more advanced that is only on
Social levels in the spirit we truly are equal each according to their gifts will answer on a same
Plane fair and honest judgment so that alone should birth passion in each one I want to be the
Best I can be not to out show another but to present our selves honorably and show we put in
The same effort as others first know all are not chosen to have such dramatic tunes of the harp
To drift across life’s varied landscape ours still will be unique and the highest tunes possible and
Will resound with glory we ourselves to a degree will be pleasantly surprised truly so it will be
Determined on the closeness we have with His Holy spirit when I first heard the harp was in
Hannibal Missouri I was in this rich place of American story telling the boy hood home of
Samuel Clemens better known as Mark Twain I was on the river frontage road the great
Mississippi was to my right but I wasn’t thinking of Tom Sawyer my thoughts weighed heavy on
My mind I was far away up by Chicago at a church where brother and Sister Willis was pastor
Then back in the present here in Hannibal this was their home town a beautiful blonde eight
Year old was their pride and joy life was full she had a older brother who was ten it was a
Musical joyous life and then dark ominous clouds rolled in one so filled with life small and
Gentle it was one of the cruelest and terrifying cancers sorry even her death was terrifying in
The midst of tears and anguish they prompted the Aeolian harp to play they brought her home
To this historical place that became so much more rich and sacred when they lay her in the
Cemetery it came as a rush it over powered my emotions in my mind I saw her waiting for that
Great call the dead in Christ will rise first and meet him in the clouds of glory then those still are
Living will be caught away with him this young heartbroken father and mother with
Out hesitation or actuation by faith and trust they continued and shortly thereafter they started
And completed a larger church the richness of the harp reached across the lost community
Families in peril confused and lost had their ears and hearts opened by the lives of these
Faithful Parents it’s not just about making heaven but look around you at the great and terrible
Day of Judgment the great white throne and He who sets there once the savoir now the judge
Of the world you have others standing there with you as you look at them you can’t help to
Look Beyond His great light and see out in the darkness the deadly silent crying trembling lost
That no one reached or worse they wouldn’t listen the next story of the harp is about Frank
Bartleman the great man God used to bring modern Pentecost to America through the gate of
Azusa St Los Angels he arrived in Los Angeles with his wife and two young daughters December
22 January his oldest daughter three year old Easter was seized with convulsions and passed
Away he echoed the word from Ester little Queen Ester seemed to have been born for a time such
As this Esther 4:14 “Beside that little coffin with heart bleeding I pledged my life anew for God’s
Work In the presence of death how real eternal issues become of all the music LA has produced
None comes close to the sounds made by the Aeolian harp that day all the days since and all
The Souls whose shouts resounded then and now what joy bells are ringing throughout the
Years you read this the harp cuts thorough every excuse every denial we make when His love is
Calling over pastoral fields over head white clouds azure blue sky a single white dove the son of
Man personally calls to you I love you you’re missing so much following the false and deadly
Trends of this world come let me pull you close your land a waste land of just material things in
My presence unquestioned exception hurts carried for years will be healed only as a father can
Do your guilt will be forever cast away moral purity that your soul cries for will be heaped in
Your life no longer dark shadows that haunt but real true life that satisfies to the uttermost it
Will heal bring new understanding addictions are flimsy bindings that hold only because you
Seek all things that are rooted in disfavor my favor knows no bounds and you will be free I will
Breathe my spirit and you will know the Aeolian harp tunes and breathtaking wonder will swirl
Through your mind heart and spirit Heaven will displace the black strangle hold of this world
Centered anew the rays of the cross and my love breaks every yoke true freedom is yours for
time and eternity

I took a room on the second floor
Of a building lost in time,
Nobody knew just when it was built
By way of its weird design.
It once had stood on an acreage
Of woods, and lakes and sky,
But now it stood in a fifth rate slum
And the world had passed it by.

Its red-brick frontage streaked with soot,
Its columns black with grime,
The marble floor with ancient foot
Was scored, and past its prime,
But any roof was a comfort then
For my life had lost its way,
And I couldn’t face the future then,
Nor yet, the light of day.

The janitor was an ugly man
And he had but one good eye,
He’d only let to the down-and-outs
And tramps that were passing by,
He made the rules for the ancient place
And he said, ‘Just you beware,
Don’t ever go to the back of the house
Or use the winding stair.’

He knew I’d agree to anything
For I had nowhere to go,
Since ever my wife had turned me out
For a butcher, name of Joe.
The years we’d spent were meaningless
Once she’d set her sights on him,
So I left without a word or a prayer
But kept my feelings in.

Up above was another floor
That was empty all the time,
The janitor said, ‘it’s not in use,
It’s just too hard to climb.’
And above that floor was another room
With the windows painted black,
And accessed by the winding stair
I’d been warned about, out back.

It was lonely there on the second floor
It was quiet as the tomb,
I got to wondering what was there
Upstairs in the topmost room,
There were noises, scuffles and fumblings,
At times in the early hours,
But when I asked the janitor why,
All that I got were glowers.

‘This house has plenty of secrets but
It keeps them to itself,
As you’d be better to keep to yours,
Rather than dig and delve,
I trust that you’ll never get the urge
To leave the second floor,
If ever I catch you out, my friend
I’ll see you out the door.’

His threats were making me curious
So I listened, quite intent,
At two or three in the morning when
Some noise was evident,
I climbed one night to the floor above
And I saw the winding stair,
And what was coming and going sent
A shock through my greying hair.

There were figures in shiny silver suits
Came in and out from the street,
Carrying cats and rats and dogs
Like specimens, all asleep,
And a terrible growl from the topmost room
Rang out when they opened the door,
And sent a shiver like ice along
My spine, from the upper floor.

And down the stairway creatures came
That I’d only seen in books,
Handed to strangers down below
With a nod, or merely a look,
They’d been extinct for a million years
Or had in the books I’d read,
But not a one of them lived or breathed,
They seemed to be newly dead.

I got back down to my room again
Shivered, and closed the door,
Sat in a quivering heap of dread
But I knew that I wanted more,
They must have come from a future time
And delved way into the past,
Why would they want our cats and dogs,
Had they lost their own, at last?

I went again on succeeding nights
The traffic was still the same,
For men of science and drunken girls
And still the strangers came,
But then a bellow from in that room
And a crunching, crashing sound,
With voices raised in the midnight gloom,
The janitor came, and frowned.

‘You’ve seen too much, now you’ll have to stay,’
He growled, and pointed a gun,
Prodded me up the winding stair
‘Til we saw what was going on,
The door to the topmost room was blocked
By an animal, tightly jammed,
‘My god, we’ll have to get out of here,
This never was part of the plan.’

Two giant tusks blocked the winding stair
As I looked in its evil eye,
Its head and shoulders had blocked the door
With no way of getting by,
It let out a giant trumpet blast
Of pain, as I turned to run,
This was no elephant, that I knew,
But a giant Mastodon.

Then up above was a steady whine
Like a jet that was winding up,
‘Don’t leave me here,’ cried the janitor,
‘I have to get back, just stop!’
But the roof of the house was lifting up
And the bricks were falling away,
I caught a glimpse of a saucer shape
As this thing took off that day.

The winding stair came crashing down
With nothing to stop its fall,
I landed down in the basement, found
Myself by a Roman wall,
The janitor, not so fortunate
Was crushed by the falling beast,
Killed by a thing, so long extinct,
By a million years, at least.

I didn’t wait for the powers that be
But took myself on the road,
Looking for somewhere else to stay
To hide away from the cold,
I found me a mansion, streaked with soot
With its columns, black with grime,
And thought, as I took a second look,
It seemed to be lost in time!

David Lewis Paget

Tiny blue flowers that spread like wild fire.
Self propagating they truly are.
Trust in me.
When in your wild garden frontage they appear.
Always hold me dear.
No fear.
Vagrant angel.
Fear not to ever tread.
Destroy not the images I left painted in your head.
Whenever those images enters your eyes.
You shall ever remember me.
And ever want me more.
In a subtle heart beat you will remember.
Your sparkling angel.
Filigree wings bonded.
Tied tight until released until you set me free.
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Down through the ancient Strand
The spirit of October, mild and boon
And sauntering, takes his way
This golden end of afternoon,
As though the corn stood yellow in all the land,
And the ripe apples dropped to the harvest-moon.

Lo! the round sun, half-down the western *****--
Seen as along an unglazed telescope--
Lingers and lolls, loth to be done with day:
Gifting the long, lean, lanky street
And its abounding confluences of being
With aspects generous and bland;
Making a thousand harnesses to shine
As with new ore from some enchanted mine,
And every horse's coat so full of sheen
He looks new-tailored, and every 'bus feels clean,
And never a hansom but is worth the feeing;
And every jeweller within the pale
Offers a real Arabian Night for sale;
And even the roar
Of the strong streams of toil, that pause and pour
Eastward and westward, sounds suffused--
Seems as it were bemused
And blurred, and like the speech
Of lazy seas on a lotus-haunted beach--
With this enchanted lustrousness,
This mellow magic, that (as a man's caress
Brings back to some faded face, beloved before,
A heavenly shadow of the grace it wore
Ere the poor eyes were minded to beseech)
Old things transfigures, and you hail and bless
Their looks of long-lapsed loveliness once more:
Till Clement's, angular and cold and staid,
Gleams forth in glamour's very stuffs arrayed;
And Bride's, her aery, unsubstantial charm
Through flight on flight of springing, soaring stone
Grown flushed and warm,
Laughs into life full-mooded and fresh-blown;
And the high majesty of Paul's
Uplifts a voice of living light, and calls--
Calls to his millions to behold and see
How goodly this his London Town can be!

For earth and sky and air
Are golden everywhere,
And golden with a gold so suave and fine
The looking on it lifts the heart like wine.
Trafalgar Square
(The fountains volleying golden glaze)
Shines like an angel-market.  High aloft
Over his couchant Lions, in a haze
Shimmering and bland and soft,
A dust of chrysoprase,
Our Sailor takes the golden gaze
Of the saluting sun, and flames superb,
As once he flamed it on his ocean round.
The dingy dreariness of the picture-place,
Turned very nearly bright,
Takes on a luminous transiency of grace,
And shows no more a scandal to the ground.
The very blind man pottering on the kerb,
Among the posies and the ostrich feathers
And the rude voices touched with all the weathers
Of the long, varying year,
Shares in the universal alms of light.
The windows, with their fleeting, flickering fires,
The height and spread of frontage shining sheer,
The quiring signs, the rejoicing roofs and spires--
'Tis El Dorado--El Dorado plain,
The Golden City!  And when a girl goes by,
Look! as she turns her glancing head,
A call of gold is floated from her ear!
Golden, all golden!  In a golden glory,
Long-lapsing down a golden coasted sky,
The day, not dies but, seems
Dispersed in wafts and drifts of gold, and shed
Upon a past of golden song and story
And memories of gold and golden dreams.

The second amendment might
As well be the sixty-ninth, for all
The life-long days it saves by
The transparent and glossy shields
Adorning blue-skied uniforms.

The strike zone is limited to the
Mobility-enhanced limbs, out of
Reach of the cardiac plateau, in
A line guarded by “I heart NYC”
Leftover campaign buttons.

Crowds question the timeless yet
Disintegrating rhetoric, and they
Sing along with misspelled threats
To sanguine attempts at love and
War, while grade schoolers watch.

What’s missing from this libretto
Is a slogan like “if they go low, we
Go high” and the money to borrow
It, or the right to use the copyright,
As long as it doesn’t get ******.

“Now hear this,” bellows the man in
The crow’s nest, stepping in front
Of his stepson who brandishes a
BB gun proudly in his arms, “the
Curfew starts at midnight!”

Dona nobis pacem, a canon of
Faith, is hummed by the last ranks
Of veterans in camouflage, hoping
To initiate a temporary calm among
The bleak and ****** crew.

A clown-faced poet attempts to draw
A smile, as she calls for an absentee
Ballot, a circuitous frontage road
Away from destiny, some think,
And a short breath of recess.

“Take away their weapons,” hollers
A very pregnant woman, who goes
Into labor, blaming the guns for her
Untimely reward, and for a moment,
Just minutes, the midwifery begins.

All this while a small coterie of men
Gathers, silently taking in the show,
Unnoticed in their pretense, but
Sporting the heritage caps of the
NRA, stars and stripes in their lapels.

The disingenuous players in this sad
Drama are about to fold their tents,
To chicken out, to return to tacos
And beer, when stillness breaks,
So much so that crickets rule.

A small boy crosses the street, his
Smile contagious, his gait strong
As he approaches the men and
Says “I am you before now, be
Of peace and good cheer.

“My commandments have no
Amendments, no magic exceptions,
No golden calves, no wicked step-
Mothers, only a heart and soul,
I am the moral of your story.”  

© Lewis Bosworth, 2016

It's raining

cold water hogged the streets

people rain watching

watching the same script

rain washing the frontage

revealing long-lost clarity

dazzling colors of the wall

rise from the ground.

Packed in the back seat of
your cramped Chevy Lumina,
and parked on the frontage road
behind the conifers
in your backyard—

the moon is low, a jaundice yellow,
the car is stalled, the heater grumbled;
you pull me in to warm me up,
my glasses fog,
you steal my smile—

[Your father, for his Sunday sermon,
packed the house—Leviticus:
“’Their blood shall be upon them,’ and
all God’s children said?”
“Amen.”]

Our breath condensed, whisper-white,
traced our initials on the window—
in after-laughing afterglow,
you swallow, nervous,
before you kiss me.

We don’t let go, till cabin lights
illuminate your father’s form—
the verse, full force, the wrath of God,
a hurricane—
a Horrible.

I never saw you afterward,
poor pastor’s son, where have you gone?
Like Pyramus, at the sight of blood
on Thisbe’s veil—
we don’t prevail.

I love poetry:
like femininity, furthermore I adore you
like sunday jams, furthermore a lullaby
like when I go places within your *****
like snuggling, furthermore cuddling
like generosity, furthermore ambition
like optimism, furthermore curiosity
like indulgement, furthermore gluttony

I love poetry like a rift on public
I love poetry for it is delicious, so vivid, furthermore fascinating to embrace your love

I love poetry:
like a fond, furthermore feminine sensual seduction
like yearning, furthermore self - possessed
like the smile on your frontage, furthermore your pretty surveillance as you wink, your kisser so glowing like a diamond

I love poetry as much as I adore you
I love poetry as much as I adore my life,
poetry is my life.

I am only one, just alone
I have no family, no one
I have no work, no house
I have no kids, no spouse
I have had everything but all are gone!

I am only one and just alone
I have no friends, not even one
I have no skies, no lands
I have no help, no hands
I have had everything but all are gone!

I am only one and just alone
I have no relatives, no one
I have no hopes, no dreams
I have no oceans, no breams
I have had everything but all are gone!

I am only one and just alone
I have no companies, not even one
I have no place, no address
I have no peace, no happiness
I have had everything but all are gone!

I am only one and just alone
I have no neighbors, not even one
I have no goals, no desires
I have no food, no dress
I have had everything but all are gone!

I am only one, just alone
I have no helpers, not even one
I have no powers, no ideas
I have no voice, no eyes
I have had everything but all are gone!

I am only one, just alone
I have no supporters, not even one
I have no health, no frontage
I have no field, no stage
I have had everything but all are gone!

I am only one, just alone
I have no partners, not even one
I have no sun, no morning
I have no moon, no lighting
I have had everything but all are gone!

I have had everything but all are gone!
Where is my wealth, where is my house
Where are my children, where is my spouse
Where is my love, where is my regime
Nothing is left without the retirement home!
Everything I need to close, I evoke everyone!

The second amendment might
As well be the sixty-ninth, for all
The life-long days it saves by
The transparent and glossy shields
Adorning blue-skied uniforms.

The strike zone is limited to the
Mobility-enhanced limbs, out of
Reach of the cardiac plateau, in
A line guarded by “I heart NYC”
Leftover campaign buttons.

Crowds question the timeless yet
Disintegrating rhetoric, and they
Sing along with misspelled threats
To sanguine attempts at love and
War, while grade schoolers watch.

What’s missing from this libretto
Is a slogan like “if they go low, we
Go high” and the money to borrow
It, or the right to use the copyright,
As long as it doesn’t get ******.

“Now hear this,” bellows the man in
The crow’s nest, stepping in front
Of his stepson who brandishes a
BB gun proudly in his arms, “the
Curfew starts at midnight!”

Dona nobis pacem, a canon of
Faith, is hummed by the last ranks
Of veterans in camouflage, hoping
To initiate a temporary calm among
The bleak and ****** crew.

A clown-faced poet attempts to draw
A smile, as she calls for an absentee
Ballot, a circuitous frontage road
Away from destiny, some think,
And a short breath of recess.

“Take away their weapons,” hollers
A very pregnant woman, who goes
Into labor, blaming the guns for her
Untimely reward, and for a moment,
Just minutes, the midwifery begins.

All this while a small coterie of men
Gathers, silently taking in the show,
Unnoticed in their pretense, but
Sporting the heritage caps of the
NRA, stars and stripes in their lapels.

The disingenuous players in this sad
Drama are about to fold their tents,
To chicken out, to return to tacos
And beer, when stillness breaks,
So much so that crickets rule.

A small boy crosses the street, his
Smile contagious, his gait strong
As he approaches the men and
Says “I am you before now, be
Of peace and good cheer.

“My commandments have no
Amendments, no magic exceptions,
No golden calves, no wicked step-
Mothers, only a heart and soul,
I am the moral of your story.”  

© Lewis Bosworth, 2016

Across the reflective fields of Hill Country grass begins to escape its icy enclosure ..Black Angus leave red clay impressions bound for green pastures ..Mourning doves wail their somber retreat as first light exposes the prequel to Heaven .. Blackbirds and smoke from morning bonfires alight , the promise of daylight is scented with Oak and Hickory as fields of cotton appear to ignite . Tin roofs begin to glow , church bells awake villages on the horizon . Golden waves pan Eastern skies , Sycamores sequester abundant sunshine ..Sparrows , Chickadees and Finches gossip without end , Bluejays and Brown thrashers command the fence line once again .
Barbed wire enclosures divide the landscapes , dancing scrub Pines act as reeds , filtering the breeze with the music of natures continuity ..
Blacktop drives ribbon the lonesome acreage , goat herds graze the property frontage . Quarter , Morgan and Appaloosas quietly graze against the backdrop of nineteenth century farm houses .. White silos and red barns , gourd birdhouses , dug wells and smokehouses ..Bantam roosters and hens sift through acorns beneath two hundred year old Water Oaks ..

Thought you found the holy one
They take a little, she takes none
It's just a frontage after all
Oh how easy do they fall
One by one, and over again
They shed a little of their skin
First you mingle,
Then you dance
Pull it to a safe distance

It pours outside
You need a ride
Wish you hadn't gone inside
Fumble for the side hand door
You don't want to stay no more
The handles broke,
The light is low
Break too late and off it goes
Falling forward from the edge
Try to remember the words you read

Don't want to know
You tried too hard, they said
But you never wanna go
Way oh way oh oh oh
Way oh oh oh
Way oh

And are your feet cold?
They spread your ashes all
And all across the snow
Way oh way oh oh oh
Way oh oh oh
Way oh


All the lights are shining through
Hit you when you try to move
Know the ending
Know the start
Know the place where it falls apart
The red herrings not fooling you
Tricked you last time before you knew
Barreling towards the bitter end
The ****** comes
You lose a friend

Growing up and dressing down
Learn the truth to shut your mouth
It's not what all you'd thought it be
Cuts your heart so gradually
Sew it up and snip the thread
Dry the tears they made you shed
Hold the chair,
Slip the noose
Never forget who cut you loose

Don't want to know
You tried too hard, they said
But you never wanna go
Way oh way oh oh oh
Way oh oh oh
Way oh

And are your feet cold?
They spread your ashes all
And all across the snow
Way oh way oh oh oh
Way oh oh oh
Way oh

Confidence dies
A little every day
You lose your way, I lose it too
I wish I was back
Safe inside instead
But I'm at a funeral for a friend.

Don't want to know
You tried too hard, they said,
But you never wanna go
Way oh way oh oh oh
Way oh oh oh
Way oh

And are your feet cold?
They sorta your ashes all
And all across the snow
Way oh way oh oh oh
Way oh oh oh
Way oh

I drive on a frontage road
Not knowing where I want to get off
Not knowing where I want to go.
I’m hurting so much emotionally
That it’s physically showing
I am among those
Who understand life
And take the on-ramp to the highway
While I wave as they fly by
I fear I’ll never have the courage to get on
The highway of life
For I prefer watching from the sidelines
Giving instead of taking
But I always hinder more than I help
No matter what lies I provide
To myself
To ease the hurricane that is my mind
I wonder, perhaps more than I should, how it would feel to disappear
Forever
Never to return to the highway
To simply take a turn off
And never return.
But these are still premature thoughts
And I’m cycling down the middle of these two lanes
Horns deafen me all around
Afraid it makes me
But the rush is more than worth the worry
After all
If they hit me, they wouldn't be at fault
It’s the cycle of life that strikes you every time
But this is no choice directional street
For this is a one way
You can’t go back
All you can do is continue to go forward
Or suddenly stop
But I won’t go that quietly
It’s my choice to, now, walk
Down this frontage road that never seems to stop
Now in the distance I see my destination
But I don’t hurry
I take my time
Since I know this is my last time.
The highway is much scarier than I thought
But I finally know my purpose
I finally know what my destiny is
Like all these others
Driving along
Laughing with their family
As though they’ve never had so much as a thought
Of a river of darkness flowing in your mind
Carrying you away from your normal path
Flowing
Choosing for you
Without consent
But how wildly it flows
How it makes you do things you’d never do
Think things you would never have the pleasure of thinking
Having tools to cope
That you, now, can't but hardly live without
But how beautiful the water is flowing underneath
Isn’t it?
Just flowing so gracefully
Reflecting the moon
And the stars
And the darkness of the night
It’s hard to see
But I can hear the sound
It calls me to the edge of the bridge
And I hear sirens in the background
They always tell you not to let others drag you down
And some have pulled over
Trying to hinder me as I have done to so many
And let so many hinder me so openly
So profound
But I’m done hindering whilst being hindered, myself
I’m removing myself from the equation
My darkness can now spread out of me
And into those who can flush it out
Since they have lights as stars do in their hearts
I hope forgiveness won’t be an issue
Even though I didn’t say goodbye as I fell
Someday after my inactivity I guess they’ll figure it out
That I finally said my secret goodbye
As breathing went from being to been
As air I could not breathe in
For there was water
And water alone
Under that blue, turned black sheet of water that I hit solid
So low under it
That I felt the bottom
And felt the blood whirl in my ears
For that was the last thing I could hear
Was the faded echoes of darkness
The taste of death in my esophagus
The sight of voices fading to oblivion into this river
For this is the only way out
Out of life that promises more than it can lend a hand
So I fell
And I fell
Into that different kind of highway
For I had no emotional struggle
Just simply
Breathed out
Drank
Strained
Drowned.
And I was suddenly at peace
Life unwound from me it’s arms
For finally I was independent
For finally
I was unbound.

Driving, driving for days
and each road I pass
each truck horn blast
that catches my glazing eyes
saves me from that terrible sleep.

In the distance the cities looks like
a million fireflies flickering in the night sky.
Home is always on the other side
of those flashing lights,
so I pass another exit sign
wishing it was mine.

The music repeats as I shift in my seat.
Scratching myself.
Uncomfortably shaking,
till I find the perfect spot.
Iron bar eyes flutter.
One blink, two blinks
three blinks, four blinks,

The car shakes as it hits
that outside lane
bouncing with those
safety indentions
and I am awake again.

One more energy pill,
one more caffeine drink,
one more bathroom break
washing my face in a gas stop sink.
The cold water refreshes me
temporarily.

A frontage lane to change it up,
familiar foliage and a country road
that I know
takes me past an old folks home
were frail lonely faces watch me
passing through their city.

Hours later I make it back.
The final wave hits,
as exhaustion attacks.
One knockout punch
and I am K.O.d;
Alive and grateful
to finally be home.

How did you celebrate your birthday?
Err… I mean Earth Day?
Were bright spring days, darkened and dampened?
Was your frontage road flooded? From your front deck did you
Watch? Did you check your watch for the time?
Or even the date? Lately, have you been letting the night fall
without getting your feet wet?
Is there still time yet?

Grey skies will always be greater,
brighter than any man made light.
Pyramids will always inspire more awe than
Skyscrapers.

Sitting under a bridge, you almost feel
as if you could scrape the sky yourself.
The roaring motors above pale
in comparison to the still, strong waters.

My still mind no longer wanders.
Instead, today, it wonders
in privilege and presence
Like it’s my birthday.

My birth right is to look north down the lake
and to look up at swaying tree tops.
Yet they are still … still
and tranquil.

I myself, will again begin to rotate and spin
as a wish, to wander
and travel
and journey
and manifest destiny
for the small town beauty
as a destination fails compared to the journey…

..and the journey is greater then the destination?
Sure, but a cliché, is less than the person.

I rub my bare toes
In wet grass
In wet sand
In cold water

Let it rain whenever mother wishes
because she lets me make my own wishes come true.
Let the wind blow out and candles
let her eat more delicious
wet
cake,
and let me play in more dirt
let me see more
lakes

by next Earth Day.

With the visage of the blue monster,
I’ve cuddled that identity
And smudged it to myself.

This chap in ashen nature,
Has parked himself –
Resting in the right plane.
I was gazing at him,
That look he furnished
Made me probing.

“I have mine stained,”
On my trend, his eyes were fixed;
And there in the chair’s apex,
His hands were zipped.
Only just lately,
I grasp the gist of those words,
Yes, he was pointing to my shirt!
“Oh..” I retorted
And it was a late reaction!
That atmosphere has staggered me!

Someone called his name,
He countered by flights of stroll;
Alright, so that’s the first chitchat!

It was drizzling outside,
I opened my umbrella and stride.
I spotted him,
Him, yes, him! Oh, it’s him!
He became the frontage of that scenery;
With his umbrella on,
I ask over something –
To which I don’t remember at all!

Seeing him made me in high spirit,
There’s an up aura within me,
Oh, again and again.

To that chemise,
I extend my gratitude;
For it was the start of something so new!
To see him once more,
How I wish.. I just wish..

(7/28/13 @xirlleelang)

Green bodied bison
with brown branch legs
press over and in
the frontage roads
that I am passing.

Monolithic green forms
moving forth like
a herd of wild
but super slow
silly buffalo.

Almost static
except for
the way they move
in the summer wind
flowing back and forth
then back again.

What a wonderful set of
modern megalithic
monsters made from
my imagination.

~
Sugar wife,
slipping husband,
massaged honeymoon flesh
wrapped in cellophane.

The sound of a water clock
cascading down
her mysterious frontage.

Handprints on
the glass pane
opaque with remnant steam.

Let your eyes
be your guide,
when dressed in
the tiniest temptations,
she catwalks into the room
with a novel idea for two.
~

carry burdens over your back
the burdens tired and you are still in lack
of asking for help or articulate how is your back

suffering from bearing that gravities that must sack
your dream in honorable life and smart  frontage
you ****** bad luck, they said you merit to attack

I spend my time in the graveyard of
St. Martin’s in the Fields,
Cleaning the moss off the headstones
Just to read what damp reveals,
The local vicar has let them go
And the graveyard’s overgrown,
As creepers cover the finer points
Of the lives now dead and gone.

And some of the stones have fallen down,
Some of them on their face,
Showing their stories to the ground
That wouldn’t reveal a trace,
I heave and jemmy them back upright
Under the noonday sun,
Then read the inscriptions in the light,
Long hidden from every one.

The work is slow and exhausting but
It gives of its own reward,
They say that it stops the haunting by
The ones that are being ignored,
The graveyard dips down into a dell
And spreads through the willow trees,
With some of the graves so covered up
I get to them on my knees.

And some of them have been there so long
That the tops have fallen in,
Opening up the coffin lids
To the skull’s unholy grin,
I sometimes cover the aging bones,
Then I sometimes leave them be,
It all depends if they made amends
Once I know each history.

But one I found in that shaded dell
Made the hairs crawl up my back,
I raised the stone when I was alone
When I should have called for Jack,
For there on the new raised frontage
Was a scene from a dream of hell,
A demon, wearing a flowing cloak
And with sharpened claws as well.

She stared from the stone of granite
Her horns stood out on her head,
Someone had carved her figure there
To give us a sense of dread,
Her teeth were those of a vampire bat
Protruding out of the mud,
And only once I had wiped them off
Could I see the signs of blood.

And then I read the inscription:
‘Here lies the Lady Vamp,
She lured her victims into the woods
Disguised as a willing *****,
Then once inside she would tear their throats,
It looked like a beast of prey,
So no-one thought to look for her till
She’d given herself away.’

‘A soldier came on her sleeping
While she was covered in blood,
Her victim’s throat was in keeping
With a vampire loose in the wood,
He sharpened a stake from a sapling
And stood for a moment, apart,
Then turned in a burst of fury,
Thrusting the stake through her heart.’

The top of her coffin had fallen in
I saw, with the creeper aside,
And there lay the vampire, staring at me
As if from the day that she died,
The stake was ****** in through the ribcage there
She’d helplessly reached with a claw,
And tried to remove, to seek a reprieve
From what she was dying for.

I’m not superstitious, I should be, I know,
And in that there lies my mistake,
I reached through that rotten, coffin lid so
I’d get a good grip on the stake,
I pulled it out swiftly, and gave it a twist,
A foul wind blew in, like a breeze,
And I was aware of a woman who watched,
Stood silently there by the trees.

David Lewis Paget

Its two thirty a.m.
or maybe later,
as she lays there
on the outer limits
of the small town
gas station parking lot
just off the highway exit,
trying to sleep as safely
as she is able.

Couldn’t be
more than
twenty-three
with a fully loaded bike,
and body tightly curled
under the cover
of her safety vest
of bright colors.

She smothers herself
under bright streetlights
cause at this time of night
or morning the lights
offer some limited sense
of security.

A concerned security guard
tries to wake her,
mistaking a mam for sir
drops a bottle of Gatorade
for her to drink later that day
and a sandwich.

He tells her
the gas station attendant
called the police.
Then to ease
his concerns
passes a couple loose ones,
leaving when he is done
getting a short explanation
of where she is coming from
and where she is going.

This is where the narrator’s
lines end but leaves him
wondering miles down the highway
if the police hassled her
or left her undisturbed,
so she could get
a few more hours of rest
before the hot day
forced this girl
back on the frontage roads.

It’s August here in New Zealand which means it is the middle of Winter. It rains almost every day here during winter.
Firewood piled outside the door is getting low so I earmarked two hours to barrow split wood from an auxiliary pile, stacked against the rear wall of the house, to the depleted pile, under cover of weather, at the house frontage.

The wood had been there for many months so it was full of spiders. Big spiders with brown chevrons on the back of their abdomen, Wolf spiders the locals call them, they can give you a nasty bite but they have insufficient venom to harm humanity. These spiders inhabit the underside of the split wood, they build silky white webs that resemble pouches. The webs catch inquisitive insects that search for food in the woodpile. The insects become entangled in the webs and the spiders pounce upon them and eat them. I saw plenty of evidence today of both the big spiders and what remains of their insect meals. Shells of the scarabs epidermis actually, all of the soft innards ****** out by the hungry spiders.

Also in the woodpile were several female Beech wasps, brightly colored little Hymenoptera with yellow and black banded stripes, with fearsome, sharp stingers protruding from the very end of the abdomen.  These wasps were not sheltering in the woodpile from the falling rain, they were hunting for the big Wolf spiders. Arachnids ten times their size and equally as combative as the hunting wasps.

Undeterred by size and ferocity the wasps attack the huge spiders without hesitation, Make no mistake, war is waged here for should the spider lance the wasp with its fangs the wasp will die an agonizing death, but if the wasp manages to deftly spear the spider with its stinger, a powerful venom will be injected into the spider immediately paralyzing it…..but the venom doesn’t actually **** the spider, it immobilizes it. The female wasp then penetrates the bulging abdomen of the Arachnid with her ovipositor and lays all of her eggs inside the paralyzed creature. Once egg laying is completed the female wasp disengages herself from the spider and flies away to die.

Almost immediately the wasp eggs hatch inside and the little white larvae begin to consume the living internals of the spider. They continue to eat the fresh edibles until they metamorphosize into young adult wasps which chew their way out of the, now dead, husk of spider and fly away to seek a mate which in turn, once fertilized, will ultimately hunt yet another unfortunate spider to host the fearsome hatchlings of her own busy brood.

As I stacked the wood in the front alcove I paused for a few moments to ponder the miracle of life and death enacted, unsuspectedly, in the battleground of my back woodpile….and marveled at the absolute drama of it all.

[email protected]
20 August 2023

I do not enjoy the
busy highway.
So, I take a slow ride
on the frontage road
on my way to work
tonight.

Thin wisps of
dark blue clouds
curve over
a turquoise sky.
Then the day fades
and nightshades
are interrupted
by lightning
off to the left.

Past the gas station,
where buildings become
fewer and farther between,
glow worms work
the fields of grass
blinking like
stars on earth.

Tears work
there way
past my solitary guard
as I recall
an old yard
of childhood games
and familiar family faces.
Too many of those faces
are now specters
planted in a deadman’s field.

No time for nostalgia,
no signs of weakness,
I beat this melancholia
with exercise
and caffeine
before my coworkers
can ever see me.

Into the past
Finding a place on a street
       with phone booths
Cell phones yet invented
         and many buildings
                with diversity
Created out of finacial necessity
Not by a forced "WOKE"agenda
We were all free to speak
Just a past memory today
           canceled by the ruthless elite
I walked unjudged and free
Finding the building with the fire escape
             as frontage
Where a dog seeks refuge upon
Only to squat and defecate
             onto the sidewaik below
Marking the address of a friend
              and his wife
Through a unlocked broken door
Up a noisey set of stairs
Through a heavly locked apartment door
I am greeted by my friend and his cats
The cats have thier places
In various locations
             with defications
Their box has not been emtied in weeks
All leaving a bitting odor
In sea of clutter
Known as chaos
In a unkept human presence
Yet we sit
In a confined human space
Speaking on numerous subjects
He has left his govenment job
Benefits and all
To become a writer
But, also a promoter of punk bands
               to pay for this exsistance
In this place and time
To end up about my poetry
As his wife looks on
In a attentive blank stare
Her ******* are huge
Intact
No restrictions
In a ******* T shirt
We are young
Leaving me to wonder
Is it my friend
Or his wife I come to visit?
I concude that I am a ******
Not a poet
In this time and place
He  hands me a pen and paper
Encouraging me to write poetry
I write with puff and beer in hand
As cover for my alternative motive
I write distracted by her
Fulfilling my friends desire
To obtain and pocess
What I write
Never to be seen by me again
But,possibly heard somewhere
In a punk rant

Poor, poor sad chattering harlequins and mannequins
bare brained and empty skulls hanging loose and bored
Nothing worthwhile or real to do and mamas are no queens
Papas try but it's unskilled work and they're hard laboured
What else to do but hate those who aspire and nurse dreams

Never been to Palaces or ever ridden in a Rolls royce
No one bows to their papas or will ever curtsey respectfully to them
Insignificance and mediocrity are their shadows making vain noise
Opportunities are there but so are drink, *** drugs, techno and grime
But we are too weak with vacant heads to make real proper choice

It's easier to hate, fling nonsense and blame those that have guts
Hide in murky births and envy achievements because you stink
Informed minds know cowards target others to distract their faults
Keyboard dissenters playing Che Guevara when they're silly finks
Fantasizing doom and gloom while some hold millions in vaults

Hahaha   hahaha   hahaha...oh children of the Revolution
How pathetic you are with simple minds and neurosis galore
Don't blame me for your absent fathers or ignorant parentage
Sorry you can't drive a Merc or open up to a posh grand parlour
Go troll some more and live in delusion that's your only frontage

Hahaha hahaha haha.....poor pathetic souls, poor subhumans
hahaha