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.

October

the legs are dying
wailing protests to no one and everyone
they know, too
but doesn’t sorrow have its place?
defending pieces of its grace?
it separates
and heeds the barrels’ breaks

touch of gold leaf
borrows a creed for old times’ sake
it falls, too
so when upon our presences falls
the living breathing free-for-all?
the flying, dipping leather ball
it balances
and awaits the final call

      

       

Copyright L.M. 2007.