Night Songs

This is a piece I wrote years ago. Definitely needs some editing, but as I don't have time right now, here it is in the raw.


In the middle of a particular forest rests a tiny pond guarded by shady oaks standing years of faithful watch. Reflections of dangling moss adorn her aging face like gaudy earrings. Willows bend and sway like uniformed school children nodding to the old watcher’s tales of all they’d seen come and go.

Night ushers in the audience of moon, stars, and bands of gypsy clouds to catch the evening show. Programs are never issued, as the bill of players is always the same. The creatures that go unnoticed during the normal course of day slip out of their bramble hovels to entertain those with ears to hear.

Crickets arrive first nestling in their dew-coated, grassy chairs; Katydids light on leafy platforms announcing the concert is ready to begin.

The maestro for the evening’s festivities is a squat-legged, bulging-eyed bullfrog named Cat Gut Slappy. Cat Gut diligently carries out his nightly duties as generations of Slappys before him have done. His ascension to the post of leader of the band had only recently taken place. His father, Razor Lips Slappy, had to pass on the mantle as the deep rich tones that once were his, were now more scratch and rattle, than clear and soothing. His reign over the woodland troupe had lasted longer than any of his predecessors. He had been credited with adding a jazzy flavor to the concerts, and after much haggling between the generations, it was accepted.

Razor Lips sits perched on the highest knee of a friendly oak on the far side of the pond so as not to distract from his son’s authority. He swells with pride, and blinks back tears from his sagging eyes, watching his son carry on the family tradition. No one knows how long the concerts have been taking place, but, it really doesn’t matter as the family of night creatures enjoys sharing their gifts of whistles, chirps, croaks and clicks. On nights when the moon is full, and her light bathes the entire community, he forgets himself, bellows out with a rush of air that reminds all around his time has past.

Cat Gut hops on the flat rock wallowed out by grandfathers, too many to remember, reverently placing his feet on the history of his ancestors. Silence blankets the arena like freshly fallen snow. As his eyes survey the host of onlookers the stars momentarily hold their twinkle in anticipation of the feast of notes preparing to float their way. His gaze falls on an elderly matron toad, Ribibal Sweets Slappy, his mother. Unlike her husband she can still belt out the songs that serenade the heavens each night before the angels close their eyes. The son gives a wink to his mother, and the low earthy tones of dusk begin.

The Katydids stroke their violins producing wave upon wave of tenor melodies, while the crickets fiddle harmonies flavoring the string sections contribution.

Cat Gut turns to Billy Bang and the tree frogs to join in with Ribibal adding volume to the choral background; sopranoes, Rhapsody Red Robin and Ruffle Sassy Bluebird, chirp in at Cat Gut’s nod applying the final touches to the lively array of night songs.

In the cool of late evening listeners reflecting on the cornucopia of sound are satiated with delight. The moon and stars give silent yawns, then gently pull the gypsy clouds over their eyes, and drift off to a restful sleep.

Shadows In The Rain

Shadow wings
over a gypsum moon,
born of a soft white sun
in a brass-lamp world.

Paper dolls weep
in rain walls without doors;
tears are seeds of laughter
in the hands of an old muse.

Tissue Thin Shoes

Do you ever feel like
a pair of tissue thin shoes
exploring the depths
of every mud puddle
two malicious feet can find?

You thirst for sun and clouds, then
slam through watery reflections
leaving rivulets of silver linings
draining back into mimicking mirages
for other worn soles to be plunged.


powered by ODEO

Dressed To Sell

The "For Sale" sign
in the neighbor’s yard
sways on knee-less wire legs
dressed in a white and blue,
wax-board, starched suit;
brown grass shoes with
scuffed-up curb toes,
round out the attire
of this street side hawker of homes.

Sunset

Fire bristles
on the feathers of her wings;
clouds, smoke-memories
of a fleeing flight.

Blow On The Bones

My thoughts shoot,
like dice across
a split-felt mind of random,
tumbling black dots decelerating
from blow-on-the-bones frenzy,
to craps, or roll again.

Pending

Storms approach from the west
promising colder days to come.
Today, I head south to demand
payment for work two months past,
a light rain starting to fall.

Be My Valentine

Two mallards chase around
the shrinking footprint
of last week’s rain,
frogs, hidden in the brush,
serenade their Valentine mood.

Garden In A Weed

We plant the seeds
from the fruit we are.
Some, in fertile dirt beds,
others, wind born spillage,
in gutters and cracks.
Raindrops and sun
nurture weed and flower;
does God prefer the one,
over the other?


powered by ODEO

Spurned Lover

I kicked sleep out of bed at 3:30 a.m.,
tired of cuddling its soft, warm skin;
I had thoughts to wrestle with,
conversations to rehearse prior to being spoken.
Its feelings were probably hurt,
but I had things to worry with,
it’ll just have to get over it when it can.

Double Down

From behind
crow caws and caws,
dark horizon

Phone call,
check’s not in the mail,
oh shit...

Skeletons To Bones

The majority of thieves in the world
don’t wear ski masks, carry weapons
of gunpowder and slice destruction,
performing their drama in front of
rewind and freeze frame security cameras.

They wear ties, pressed suits, heels
that announce the authority of their presence.
Weapons of choice are cell phones, board rooms,
lap tops, and employees that left click
the death sentences of whomever they choose.

I don't mean to imply that all business people
are high dollar crooks addicted to blood. But,
we all know those that snort greed and ambition
up their brown stained nostrils, multi-tasking
from prey to promotion, skeletons to bones.

Focus

My reflection wobbles
up and down
the dark sides of the cup I’m holding;
features fade in and out,
as I sip the bitterness of coffee.
The question that comes to mind is,
am I coming into focus,
or slowly disappearing?

My Tears

My tears, like beads in a rosary,
count the wasted decades of love,
scattered shards of memories,
dimples in dust to be swept out.
Explanations are for your ears only,
to me they’re rocks comforting glass.
The blood that spurts from each word I write
will never convict you of a crime, but you
sliced my heart with the steel of another’s lips,
a taken life cries for vengeance.