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.

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A Lull

it’s sometimes pleasant, you know
cutting my heart open with letters
signalled from God? Fate? me?
I tear away at words
and that they hate is good
because it concerns them all
and fortune will fall into the lap
of those who understand it
so sleep away
nestled amongst stars
sought for by none, but wanted
and a step along tells me
that I have indeed come aways
so that I am tired should not surprise
a lull should be enough
clustered into a mimosa
is all I am
and, I’m afraid, all I’ll ever be

   

   

Copyright L.M. 2007. (written a few months ago as well as the next few I’m posting).