“The Raven-Haired Beauty of Gudger”

The Rambler’s Tale Part I-

I found myself drunken in Gudger,

In Chestua Church cemetery, all alone,

I rested my head on a comfy stone,

Of a winsome raven-haired beauty taken

Away from the life roads that I do roam.

The Enchantress’ Tale-

I find here a man in this dead land,

A searcher, a questioner marked male.

He rejects the common belief tale.

I see he loved a raven girl ripped

From Mother, and then Death tripped.

The Albino Snake’s Tale-

Here ye miscreants have found,

Buried deep in dank underground,

A lass, a fair Pooh girl betrayed,

By flitter female friends delayed,

Found by Death’s scythe’s dark ways.

The Constable’s Tale-

She was abandoned when abandoned

Her her sanctity and trust of no harm

Befalling a maid with her maids, untrue

Scattershot whiffs, faced truth anew,

Beshocked her scaly parseltongue allies.

The Coroner’s Tale-

No foul play this wet deserted coprse

Experienced she no friendship remorse.

Drowning Death from unknown allergy

Claimed this raven-hair girl’s life energy.

Parked alone in a too common Ingle’s lot.

The Rambler’s Tale Part II-

I loved the raven-haired maid of Gudger.

Yet I betrayed her as much as kith and kin.

I seek her company, but settle for her cold.

Ophidian solace, hissed at me as if to kill-

Leaves my soul naked, desolate as her last pill.

~Dedicated to Poohgurl, Tookie, Esta, Derek, JRG,

The Spartans of Thermopylae, & hanging chads anon.

“The Locked Room”

The house had a brooding look,

“Dollar Store makeover” said she,

“Plus its soooo cheap!” her added.

So we bought it and moved in on

Halloween night, right before dusk.

We had candy packets prepared

Yet no cars or kids even slowed

As they thronged busily past us.

“Must be used to no one living here.”

I said as another group hurried past.

After the tricksters, we watched TV,

Then toward midnight felt sleep urges,

So we traversed the stairs to bed,

Then noticed a door unseen before.

“What room could this be?” said I.

“Open it,” said she, and I tried to do.

Alas the door forbade me entry,

Locked as tight as deep winter wax.

“Look, there is a key,” said she,

Pointing toward a dangling opener.

I grabbed the key and turned it fast,

Sprang the door inwards, heard a gasp.

Troll-like creatures ran swiftly past,

Down the stairs, then into the yard-

Brandishing carving knives, giggling.

“The Graverobber’s Lament”

I curse the concrete vaults,

The hybrid sod that stains,

Patio lights, solar candle,

Sage lined coffins of gold,

Caretaker’s dogs, lean & bold.

The jewelry hoarder Auntie,

The greedy bland mortician.

Hard packed dry Summer dirt.

Double-locks of stainless.

Internet plot guard camera rest.

Full Moons Revivals, lightening.

Drunks too broke to brawl or

Bother with yet too boo scared

Sober to pass on out, or about.

Cheap substituted slipper rout.

Buried early, ground has set,

Footstones to pry over away,

Ghosts of relatives not dissolved

Whispering old tongue verses vexed

Their hollow eyes seek me to hex.

Interred with a blessing time takes.

Makes for a longer & harder dig.

Hates me does me the bobber,

Funeral Home master key sobber

Tha’ pinches the corpse ‘fore buried.

“The Zombie in My Garden”

The cold doesn’t bother him,

Nor the rain, the gloom, the winds.

Sometimes a raven pecks his head.

The neighborhood kids mock

How slow he moves near the fence. 

We call him Zeke the Zombie,

He still votes absentee,

It’s a Tennessee zombie thing.

I give him Hardee’s chicken

Then laugh when he gets sick.

He favors Baby’s Breath,

Bachelor Buttons and Dear Zinnia.

My own undead compost heap-

Tax credit like an electric car,

But he still prays to zombie God.

I tried to sell him on Craigslist,

No one wanted to buy, just rent.

Oh, and old weird Bill Bolton,

The King of Englewood, claims

He is the Fresh Prince sometimes.

Don’t call Zombie Zeke out,

When I go to meet the Sisters.

I left him hungry to ward off the

Fly boys and fallow cankered girls

That live alone in the sulfur cave.

“We Saved the Indians from Themselves”

No mound ghosts to scare kids,

No buffalo dreams to roam.

Fences square the lands,

Ear tags show the brands,

Medicine men can get Obama care.

Dream Catchers in pink VW bugs

Emasculated by fake daisies in

Fluted dash vases beside them-

Protection from Redskin scalpers

Not selling NFL tickets in D.C.

The Wendigo stalks the mountains,

Finding the ersatz camper, hiker, lover.

Howling the death scream, stealthy

Murders unsolved by natural means,

Blamed on bath salt inhaler junkies.

Visit the chill that previews the kill,

Seek the lair of the quiet Winter’s skill.

The Spirit of the forgotten dream

Seeks your soul to ream apart from

Body mean in the twilight unseen.

“Mommie, what happened to the Indians?”

“They all moved out west, until the West ended.”

What the dear child isn’t told is that where

West ended, the American version of

Auschwitz began for the Mosesless desert tribes.

“The Lazy Caterpillar”

Oh. why should I cross this pallid frame?

Laid to rest on clover I love best?

Should frost dictate my appetites?

These shorter days and longer nights.

Under skies not witnessed by summer.

The orange monsters ply night fears,

I just hibernate my set of drears.

I cannot change these frigid times,

Else I would fly to warmer chimes-

Trapped am I as an ethered corpse.

John, Jonah, Jonas, what was his name?

He elapsed under the full moon game.

She came, she went, she his life spent.

All in the name of love and fame

Under skies loving no one’s name.

Insect dorma, insect pride,

Insect revelation of buggish pride.

Tell me caterpillar, what is life?

That dead Ted here lies without a wife?

The dirge plays anon, like a country song.

Caterpillar, Caterpillar. Sing me a song.

Make it gay and true but not too long.

Leave the world the way you like best.

Skeletons bleached, lonely greyed crest-

Chest burst open by butterflies unrest.