From open graves the spirits roam,
this one night of the year,
To wander up and down the streets,
and in our hearts strike fear.

They scratch upon the window pane,
and pound upon the door,
With wailing voices screaming out,
for entry they implore.

And peering out from back of drape,
the terror of the eve,
Seen scurrying across my lawn,
these spirits as they grieve.

REFLECTIONS

As night threw shadows on day
Narcisse made his way
under pale moonlight
to mirrored waters clear
where he wondered
at the nature unknown
of his own image
reflected

This strange fascination
stole his years
and took his soul
into waters still and deep
to seek what we all seek
not in Self
but in another's reflection

ambition my friend you haven’t a bit,
he spake to me….
as I was morphed…

see what I have…
a chauffeured car
Porsche,
lights on roof and a flag
I have two houses
one for my silent stay alone
the other when I need company
I have tonnes of dollars
have you any?
I play bridge
golf
watch cricket
what do you do?
I’m lucky I have all
but a wife
what about that can one do
and that’s all about what you have
so make do
create a life of ambition friend,
I advise you.

Shock anguish and deep dismay
on that bright September day.
Barbarians come to our gate:
false Islamists coerced by hate.

Twin towers turned into twin plumes,
thousands sent to fiery dooms.
people falling from the sky;
desperate choices, how to die?

Did you think that we would yield?
In Penn's Woods a cratered field
gave first hint of what was awakened,
complacency was then forsaken.

I haven't written much about my rock, my strong foundation
that's only 'cos he'd curse me to all hell, perhaps damnation
and chuck a down-here-under male's embarrassed hissy fit
if he was made aware that I've writ even this small bit

so please don't go and tell him I'm confessing here my love
for him, the second, gifted me to be my right hand glove
when number one departed and all order went amiss
and pain would not allow relief with band-aid or with kiss

we're given, if we notice, a reward for soul's sour lessons

luxurious aromas mingle
in tall mahagony rooms
cognac snifters clink
and twinkle
in the glint of chandeliers

as for me,
I'm tipsy
leaning cooly in a corner
twisted in irony
bored
and condescending

then I see her
and I'm suddenly intrigued

womaness aglow
latticed in spicey red heels
playing it haute and haughty
deeply lost in a reverie of hopefulness

and I want to hold her
enfold her
gently
in my arms

that, or either
slap her out of it

river curdled with ice
her bending dark naked trunks
laced with mists
rising from her trees
where she eats the banks
with her hunger of spring

washs snow from cemetary hill
down civil war brickwork
lane copper roof gathering
halls and slate sheen snow
sliding slow
mists climbing like the river
valley dreams
the clouds that slept too long
and linger on

over a town of ironwork
that twists like nettles
on steaming factories

What paper and pen I use
Does not matter,

What diction I use and style I write in
Does not matter,

Whether or not my words are ever written
Does not matter,

For ink will eventually dry,
And paper will burn,
Even words are eventually forgotten,
It is true,
No matter what you say of legends and thinkers,
The words of those who sought immortality,
Will eventually fade,

And what matters most in verse
I will never understand,

And I shall continue not to write
But to feel,

you are way too intelligent to be
amidst Neopoets
who spread like autumn leaves
collecting the rays of suns
in summer poems
and catch the lovely chilly breeze
and
admire the sunset
far in the distant horizon
across the blue wavy seas
and
admire themselves in superficial garb
being the illustrious poets of yore
who love to be read as none ever was before
and
get singled out like me
as you once did ...

did she tremble as the stag horns burst through
icy, untouchable
pointing judgments of
the poet as housemaid
the laureate academic
collecting a pulitzer for his first dead wife's work
His best friend and true wife stood seven years
before ground sleeping pills and a gas oven
ate the air, the daughter too.....mouth open lips purple blue
did you get him back? He married a year later
Assia the Lilith of this tale.

I wonder

if in afterlife are you in tornado caterwaul with Sylvia