A poem,
Looking for a home.

From "Cutting Pages in a Book"

Our histories set in the first chapters

our futures not yet readable

A poem,
Looking for a home.


From "The Bus in Heaven"

The elegance of cold skin

and the scent of myrrh

ripe among us.

Written in 2015 by little old me

Storm

He hears,

Raging,

Howling,

Thunderous bellowing.

He feels,

Slamming,

Wet,

Splashing,

On eyes and face.

He sees,

Bright lights

Flashing behind his eyes,

Sudden darkness.

The sound of sirens,

Screaming.

He awakens in an ambulance,

Remembers the savage beating

He endured

At the hands of an abusive father

When the storm came.

Thank you, Duane Vorhees, for publishing my poem in Duane's Poetree.

https://duanespoetree.blogspot.com

Two Elephants Greet by Entwining Trunks -- Melinda Moore

Gray to Black

For our iron colored majestic brothers,

for the safety of their alabaster tusks,

we beseech you, all whose trophies

are carved and displayed

by others as idols, 

by others for sweet music,

hallowed tones made imperceptible by dirges

sung by gentle creatures, 

slaughtered for the benefit of indifferent industry,

pawns deemed unworthy of even the simplest pretense of hatred.

While the devil underwrites your cruel tools, 

engines of eradication,

as the very last titan’s eye goes milky to mirror his tooth, 

he will call out for peace,

carry your denied confession with him,

away from you for your sake.

For that is the truth of love.

Thank you Editor Mark Antony Rossi for publishing this poem in Ariel Chart.

http://arielchart.blogspot.com/2019/05/libraries-of-future.html





Courtesy of Ariel Chart

Libraries of the Future

Once the bookshelves were overhead high,

and the scent of the glue

helped the print catch your eyes.

Pupils are no longer seeing.

Darkness forms from failing ink.

The reflection of words is stopped.

The need to track symbols gone.

The transmission of ideas replaced,

from the printed page,

through wires curving and inserted

into the receptacles of the brain.

What they want us to know, we know.

What they want us to feel, we feel.

What they wanted us to forget, we have forgotten.

Thank you to Editor Mark Antony Rossi for publishing this poem in Ariel Chart.

http://arielchart.blogspot.com/2019/05/arguing-just-for-arguments-sake.html



Courtesy of Ariel Chart

Arguing Just For Arguments Sake

My grandmother had

the sacred heart portrait

above her bed.

It never raised the dead

of my grandfather,

nor my grandparents’ first born,

but better the devil you know

than the devil you don’t,

and the endless banter continued 

throughout the years,

as she demanded the return of what was hers, 

and He insisted

on keeping possession 

of what was His.

I strongly suspect

that this debate was resolved 

when she took her last breath.

HAGRID'S LEGACY WITHIN DUMBLEDORE'S WORLD

Thank you to Editor Mark Antony Rossi for publishing this poem in Ariel Chart.

http://arielchart.blogspot.com/2019/05/hagrids-legacy-within-dumbledores-world.html




Courtesy of Ariel Chart

May 07, 2019

HAGRID'S LEGACY WITHIN DUMBLEDORE'S WORLD

Hagrid’s Legacy Within Dumbledore’s World

One of J.K. Rowling’s more touching messages

in the Harry Potter books

was how Rubeus Hagrid,

the self-professed screw up,

the one teacher who wasn’t trusted to perform magic,

the one accused of having once

opened the Chamber of Secrets,

was allowed to transport,

by himself,

the greatest of Hogwart’s treasures -

“First years”

He stood alone on the platform to collect them.

He stood alone to wave them off at year’s end.

This was Albus Dumbledore’s 

greatest feat of magick.

Magia est potens,

sed est amor omnibus.