Wishing Well

bunchcut clumps of frozen roses
bundled tight with severed hoses
lay at rest beside a broken/wingèd
horse upon a token
buried deep beneath a well
somewhere in its wat’ry cell
reflects a beam of fortune calling
stalling, standing ten feet tall
against the wall, much to bestow
a tiny glist’ning, far below

in a note of candid calling
bawling of an issue, wrote
what comes as coming standard
wish you naught a fret, refraining gloat
a stubborn goat, a sour day’s bet
will ‘ere the morning hour be met
and call you shall with all in hues
this blinded, baited, blessèd news

Copyright L.M. 2007.

Station

I couldn’t stretch it
it began furtively
the weasel of a creature
stitching disaster with a golden flare
dancing brushstrokes in the air
stepping lightly
flooding slow
a prick to welcome
boring deep within
each layer, each flaking level
it could be cruel
but I’m sure this isn’t new
I know the tracks
and paint the country with pleasure
still be the train, upon them all
useless and crumbling
but ever so mighty
bending light with each day
crowding this heaven-sent boundary
to a cradle beneath
somehow immersed in everything
so carbon me
make me realistic
drawn and painted and sung
compose me your morals
stand with posture perfect
gripping ledges
haphazard leaping
and suddenly —
you see it too

so change it all, and harbour no chain
abandon weight, for I can help you fly

   

      

Finished: 8:28 a.m., Wednesday, December 5th, 2007.