A poetic journey through my mind

Archive for March 22, 2012

Ghost Story

the wind that whistles through the eaves sings his lullaby,
the leaves that blow through the open door whisper hush now, don’t you cry,
upstairs in the attic a cradle rocks softly, lulling him to sleep,
and out on the hill the tombstone reads simply “Baby, lost to the deep”.


HMS Imp of the Perverse

My greatcoat flaps against my knees,
the wind is stiff so high above,
I pull my goggles down to see,
and give the wheel a healthy shove.

The ship responds, her ailerons
creaking in the cool night air,
while down below our target steams,
crew and pilot unaware.

My men are lined up at the rail,
their eyes alight with treasures call,
a scurvy row of pirates, they,
rogues and knaves and blackguards all.

Our grappling hooks go whistling down,
to land in clash and clang of steel,
the helmsman gives a warning call,
while down below, alarm bells peal.

The crew come swarming out like rats,
and clashing steel soon fills the air,
but they, poor souls, are overmatched,
and soon they huddle in despair.

We take the captain down below,
and with his key, open the hold,
a gleaming sight soon fills our eyes,
of new world spice and spanish gold.

Great leathern sacks my men fill up,
then monkey-like, swarm up the rope.
Last man up, I glance behind, and laugh
at the ships name…New Hope.


Harvest Dance

bright eyes shine and footsteps scurry,
voices whisper hurry, hurry,
come, the dance is starting soon,
underneath the harvest moon.

thru the shining city streets,
where the pulse of nightlife beats,
the call goes out, and those who hear,
are coming in from far and near.

the harvest ball will soon commence,
just behind the chainlink fence,
in the darkest part of town,
where the lady moon smiles down.

dancers gather, all together,
never mind the wind and weather,
bow and curtsey, reverance,
mingle with your favorite haunts,
twist and turn and do-si-do,
look at that big goblin go,
and though it will be over soon…
let’s dance beneath the autumn moon!


Babies

Her air of “oh-so-adult” vies
with the child behind her eyes,
cartoon knapsack, scuffed a little,
riding high on rounded middle,
this child who still needs mothers care,
will she have the love to spare,
for the child who grows within
this child inside a womans skin?