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.

Fourflight

twice I watched my number pass
felt the crumbles of the blast
siphoned, mirrored, filed away
sickening by this light of day
parachutes of older grace
pick me up, cradle my face
I’m dying by the light of mourn
repelling with the scent of scorn
a patient man has never seen
the light of me, the plight of me
so sit still while I peck into
my scorching hands, Beautiful Blue
words that letters really ought
not touch the pearls that teach you naught
have wrung my hands into a knot
and teach me what shouldn’t be taught

Copyright L.M. 2007.