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.
do you question, as I do
the time suffered painfully through
the churning of a constant true
and breaking wireless of a sort?
are you happy to report
the second coming last resort?
or would you rather just retort
within your stage and clamoring few?
a docile servant becomes you
adept at nothing, talent-proof
all hate raised to those who blew
the deflating bubble that surrounds you
all that’s matter, matters not then
what succeeds won’t be forgotten
Copyright L.M. 2007. (in a series of many written around the same time a couple months ago).