Linda's Literary Home

Author: Linda Sue Grimes

  • Tangled Shadows

    Image: Wireframe sculpture of a human head and shoulders, casting complex, tangled shadows on a lilac-colored wall – Adobe Stock

    Tangled Shadows

    Nightmares weave a tangled tapestry
    Leaving their quarry stunned,
    Bewildered, floating in midnight fog.

    Phantom-mares prowl the sleeping mind,
    Looting joy, bruising thought.
    No playful pups, no laughter’s sweet parade.

    Instead, a hulking, snarling beast
    Splashes fear in broad, black strokes,
    Trapping her in corners thick with dread.

    She stands, confounded by the twisted
    Specter she’s become—
    Whither did the bright-eyed child vanish?

    The beast barking up her tree
    Is no loyal companion, but a shaggy,
    Shadow-eyed ogre—

    Glaring into a pit of swirling ink
    Where innocence is swallowed,
    Where hope is ground to dust.

    She has felt the hoofbeats of that nightmare
    Drumming on her skull,
    Exhaling regret as heavy as rain-soaked wool.

    What sin summoned this foul play,
    This dross that clings to her spirit?
    Can she ever tread firm ground again?

    Or will the sucking mud
    Forever stain her thoughts?
    A mutt howls at her soul’s threshold,

    And each dawn she wakes
    Haunted by the memory
    Of a slick, grinning demon pressing her down.

    Is this the end?
    A furious surge of darkness
    Breaking loose from the vaults of her past?

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  • “Forget the Past”: A 10-Sonnet Sequence

    Image: SRF Meditation Gardens in Encinitas CA – Photo by Ron W. G.

    “Forget the Past”: A 10-Sonnet Sequence

    Forget the past. The vanished lives of all men are dark with many shames.  Human conduct is ever unreliable until man is anchored in the Divine.  Everything in future will improve if you are making a spiritual effort now.
    Swami Sri Yukteswar in Paramahansa Yogananda’s  Autobiography of a Yogi

    When one finds oneself harboring deep regrets for past behavior, thus stewing a pot of hot sorrow, regret, and remorse, Swami Sri Yukteswar’s words of truth about the human condition work like a soothing balm to calm to mind and cool the nerves.

    1  Forget the past—its darkness rattled in shame

    Forget the past—its darkness rattled in shame,
    Where myriad men have wavered, losing their way.
    The moves of minds, like cattle, are prone to stray,
    Not anchored to Truth, they lose their rightful name.
    In darkness through tales of time, no one can claim
    A clear path as night turns into day.
    But then the heart can choose a better way—
    Seeing Light, no daftness dare to cause blame.
    O venture forth! For present time is holy and clear,
    A door through which the saner world may rise.
    Each step with faith lightens the heft of fear,
    And heralds the soul to ever-brightening skies.
    Future bliss commences in present grace,
    As humankind with God all erring ways replace.

    2  Forget the past, where shadows veil the soul

    Forget the past, where shadows veil the soul,
    Where faded lives in shame and darkness dwell.
    Wavering human hearts are apt to fall,
    Drifting aimless till Divine Reality swells.
    The pressure of old flaws must not control,
    Grace redeems though mortal steps rebel.
    Future light is waiting, where hopes unroll,
    As each soul rises for in heaven to dwell.
    Now is the task: to pursue the holy flame,
    To labor with faith, to trust the Unseen Guide.
    Each striving creates a path to higher aim,
    Where peace, truth, and love in sacred light abide.
    So forsake all the ghosts of past blame,
    Allow your soul with the Father’s own will to reside.

    3  Forget the past: the shadowy, departed days

    Forget the past: the shadowy, departed days,
    Where legion lives hide obscured in silent shame.
    The efforts of humankind, unsettled as a flame
    That flickers, wavering inside a slate-gray haze.
    Hearts, untethered, waft on and on in unsure ways.
    Each life like a compass spinning, never fixed the same.
    Hope yet remains, calls hearts and minds to reclaim
    A stead-fast course, where loftier purpose stays.
    Only when the soul is fixed deep
    Within the sacred, ever-living Light
    Can human conduct rise above the changing sand.
    The future’s promise remains bright to keep,
    Born of striving made in spirit’s sight—
    A fresh beginning will allow the soul expand.

    4  Forget the past: Leave all that lies behind

    Forget the past: Leave all that lies behind,
    Shadows that cling, darkness understood,
    Vanished lives, a sad humankind—
    All lie veiled in ignominy, a dense brotherhood.
    Human steps on shifting sands take flight,
    And self-trust remains fragile, apt to fall,
    Until the soul rises to purer light,
    And harbors firm where grace embraces all.
    All all memory to remain and  be,
    To remember from past somber wisdom lend,
    A clear reminder of our vanity,
    And that upward striving brings our blissful end.
    Then the future will create a brighter scene,
    If the heart and mind on spiritual effort lean.

    5 Forget the past: disavow the shadows of  yesteryears

    Forget the past: disavow the shadows of  yesteryears,
    Where shame infuses the deeds of mortal men,
    Gain for the soul that searches, with bitter tears,
    The road to grace where light will shine again.
    Unsure is the heart, a wavering reed,
    Until bound fast to heaven’s endless love;
    Yet hope does bloom where faith’s true seed
    Is sown with care, blessed by the stars above.
    The future’s promise arrives for those who strive,
    With soul toiling to mend what once was torn;
    Each step toward God renders fleeting joys revive,
    And colors the dawn where new dreams are born.
    So fling aside the dark, enfold the fight,
    For in seeking God, all wrongs turn right.

    6 Forget the Past:  let not ghosts of dusk to remain

    Forget the Past:  let not ghosts of dusk to remain,
    Do not let regret douse the morning flame;
    The storms of time have hollowed out joy and pain,
    Yet the soul still exists beyond all name.
    The past is only a dream and stars forget,
    Like a cloud liquefying in dawn’s tranquil breath;
    What holds us now are ropes of karma yet—
    But even such bindings unravel before death.
    Unmoored, we become tossed in shifting tides,
    But one strong cord connects to what is true;
    In stillness where the cosmic whisper hides
    The soul will rise in light when we break through.
    Hie inward now—the veil of maya becomes thin:
    The truth we seek always waits within.

    7  Forget the past, steeped in shadowy shame

    Forget the past, steeped in shadowy shame,
    Where vanished lives dark with error dwell.
    The vagabond human heart, untethered, apt to fail,
    Unsure, unguided as the winds that shift and swell.
    Yet in Divine Reality, an anchor steadies the soul,
    A steady guide through tempests of the will.
    No act of humankind endures, no human skill,
    Unless by grace its source divine truth fulfill.
    Peer ahead now—allow spirit’s zeal to ignite,
    For every seed of effort sown in faith shall bloom.
    The future’s hope, secured from earlier gloom,
    Will surely rise as love and righteousness unite.
    So travel on, O soul, the path to seek the eternal flame,
    And secure in the Heavenly Father the will to overcome.

    8 Forget the past, where shadows veil the mind

    Forget the past, where shadows veil the mind,
    Where faded lives and shames still haunt the soul.
    Let the chains of memory be completely left behind.
    Only in present time exists the goal.
    The heart adrift is half-hearted, not whole.
    Human deeds waver and are swept by tide.
    Only in Divine Reality does one know control—
    A reliable harbor where our hopes reside.
    If now, with genuine spirit, we confide
    In heavenly aims and search for the inward light,
    The future’s path will remain open, clear and wide,
    And every day grow brighter than the stars of night.
    So move forward, allowing the soul’s true course be steered:
    In today’s effort, all strife and darkness are cleared.

    9 Forget the past: sadness and errors live there

    Forget the past: sadness and errors live there
    Where folks too often amble blindly.
    Do not allow regret to dominate your thinking—
    Concentrate instead on the eternal Light of Truth.
    Human behavior, without God’s guidance,
    Is as unstable as a tumbleweed blown by the wind.
    Without the Divine Reality, we forget our way,
    Each decision pulls us further into confusion.
    But the eternal Now remains the  moment to grow:
    Walk with purpose along the path to Blessèd Spirit.
    This very moment holds the seed of joy,
    If you choose to walk with Divine Mother now.
    Through the Grand Reality, your past becomes clear—
    And your future turns bright and filled with hope.

    10  Forget the past: filled with shadows, shames, and scars

    Forget the past: filled with shadows, shames, and scars
    It remains heavy, dark, dampening our lives.
    Unmoored hearts shift about aimless, lost in storms,
    Our conduct noise-tossed like the restless wind.
    The spent lives remind us that we fall,
    How fragile seems the thread that clasps us tight.
    But also, this moment keeps a different weight—
    A chance to enter ourselves into something vast.
    Let go of the burden of all reckless ways,
    And turn toward the One Who steadies and sustains.
    The future bends beneath a stalwart hand,
    As effort moves us to spirit deep within.
    Each breath leads the mind and heart toward light and hope,
    To a life reborn and anchored in the Divine Reality.

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  • Regret’s Return

    Image:   Vincent van Gogh’s Sorrow 

    Regret’s Return

    Upon a midnight drear, Regret does weep,
    Her face veiled by locks that downward flow,
    Her arms encircle knees in silence deep,
    The weight of years upon her form does show.
    Her belly, swollen through  myriad pains,
    Her breasts, empty vessels of the past,
    Her beauty, once a fire, now remains
    A phantom  ember fading, fading fast.
    Yet, alas! A silver moth upon her palm
    Rests and whispers secrets of love and light:
    “You are not cursed, but merely changed by alarm;
    Within your sorrow wings of hope take flight.”
    Thus  Regret, though battered by time’s cruel hand,
    Finds grace renewed and learns again to stand.

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  • Corridors of the Mind

    Image:  “Corridors of the Mind” created by ChatGPT

    Corridors of the Mind

    In the heart’s corridor, doors stand ajar,
    Each begging for touch, blistering the mind.
    Trivialities in single file align,
    To fill the hollow scoundrel with desire.

    Funny men should not rule this grim bazaar,
    Where goose-steps march, the brain-dead kind.
    With straw in hand, they skirt the just, confined,
    Dealing in drugs, their fate a tarnished star.

    Yet she, who spurned love’s slow, sweet sorghum drip,
    Denies its warmth, her heart a barren plain.
    Her mother hears “I love,” but words fall thin,

    For funky notions find no place to slip.
    In a blank cathedral, where the marginal reign,
    Blather and lies stir uproar’s reckless din.

  • Two Sonnets in Praise of Stillness 

    Image:  “In Praise of Stillness” created by Grok

    Two Sonnets in Praise of Stillness 

    Sonnet I:  Morning’s Gentle Call

    As morning’s breath touches the curtained night,
    And draws with golden rays the shade apart,
    My soul, in quiet musing bright,
    Then weaves a garland fair within my heart.
    The river’s murmur, in solemn chant before
    Noontime, calls my spirit to attend;
    Gray mountains, veiled in mist, my eyes explore,
    Like mournful shades that round my vision bend.
    Yet on the bank, where winter’s frost does cling,
    Sweet blossoms wait to burst into radiant bloom.
    My smile, a tear, in tender offering,
    Do fold over lilies’ clock in fragrant room.
    Thus sways my soul to greet the Divine’s grace,
    Where morning’s light warms my sacred place.

    Sonnet II:   Evening’s Starlit Peace

    As evening’s quiet veiling falls, my soul becomes a vase,
    Open to catching the prayers that softly rise.
    The rain, an avatar, with gentle touch does cause
    The day’s sharp edge to render my spirit wise.
    My silver sorrow, breathed in one last sigh,
    Rises to where starry angels light the hill.
    Old eyes, now clear, behold the heavens high,
    Where night’s embrace does every care distill.
    No tulip dares to flaunt its vivid hue,
    Without the Gardener’s hand, divine and sure;
    No soul gains peace, save where the Guide does woo,
    With promises of love forever pure.
    So I sway still, in dawn’s or dusk’s soft gleams,
    To meet my Creator in everlasting dreams.

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  • A Suite of Poems in Five Movements: With Illustrations 

    Image:Sō Shiseki’s Flowers and Birds in the Snow

    A Suite of Poems in Five Movements

    Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” Romans 12:19

     Image: Cat

    I  First Movement

    In the beginning, only two . . .

    On the Pond

    (Appeared in Manna, West Valley City, UT, Fall 1992)

    Fog lifts morning off the pond.
    A fish flops up out of the water,
    Fires the early-bird fisherman’s hopes.
    He sees his pole bend, almost break
    Against the weight of his haul.

    Noon sun bleaches the rocks along the bank.
    The little girl dips her toe in the shallows
    Sees her sister crossing the bridge
    Coming home from town.

    The frogs begin around sundown.
    Their chorus performs long into the night.
    Campfires rim the edge of the water.  
    Beer shouting dies down around two. 

    Fog settles night over the pond.
    Fishermen doze over their fishing poles.
    The little girl sleeps in the house on the hill.
    Her sister gets up early 
    To watch the fog lift again. 

    Image:  The Big Pond

    As Long as Gravel Bitterness Rattles

    (A slightly different version of this poem appeared in Struggle, Vol 8 No 4, Winter 1992-93)  

    So she warned you about the natural hierarchy:
    First: White men,  Second: White women,  Third: Black men,  Fourth: Black women
    And she stands on his blackness with tall heels?  And warns you that your granddad Will disown you If you spring off a black baby?
    And your dad will kill you
    For calling him friend?
    What can I say to you?
    You are a child, battered by bigotry:
    You are staring in the face of a monster
    That will eat your heart and spit out the love,
    If you don’t stare it down.
    You are walking into a wall
    That is harder to tear down
    Than the one in Berlin,
    You’d better start chipping away now.
    You are caught in a vice that will squeeze out
    Your mind and leave you an empty skull,
    If you don’t push back.
    You are sinking farther out at sea than the Titanic
    And without a lifeboat,
    You’d better become a tireless swimmer.
    You are chained to a stake whose root
    Shoots out the other side of the earth,
    Better learn to see visions in the dirt like Sesshu.
    In this world, there are those who split their souls
    Into hate-fragments.  They cannot know love
    As long as gravel bitterness rattles in their hearts.
    One foot is out the door waiting for the other to follow:
    Even if your heart has to bed down on the porch,

    See that your mind escapes that prison house
    Or else your soul will be the final victim.

    II  Second Movement

      “Be glad you don’t have a sister who’s a poet!”

    The Terrible Fish  

    (Original version, October 2008)

    owed to Sylvia Plath’s “Mirror”

    The nightmare repeats itself:
    A daughter clamped tight to each foot
    Pulling her down under
    The brute waters of her biggest lake;
    She gasps,
    Imagines she’s drowning
    While her husband watching from the bank
    Keels over from a heart attack.
    A colossal carp looms under her nose;
    She smells blood
    Dripping from a dozen hooks dangling
    From his mouth.
    His eyeballs slide out easy
    As the drawer of a cash register.
    Each eye-socket a window
    To her own soul — $ bills
    With little jackpots on them
    Jump up and dance like clowns
    Poking out their tongues,
    Flapping campaign signs
    With hammers, sickles, swastikas —
    She believes yes she can.
    Morning shivers her awake again,
    Stumbling to the bathroom
    Where the mirror flashes
    In her face that same ugly carp
    That has been catching her dreams
    And throwing them back
    As she chases each $,
    Never quite able to grasp enough.

    Image:  Carp at Elkhorn Lakes

    The Terrible Bottomfeeder

    owed to Sylvia Plath’s “Mirror 

    Again, the nightmare begins:
    A child clamped tight to each foot
    Pulling her down under
    The dark, brute waters of the river;

    She gasps, imagines she’s
    Drowning while some bloke
    Watching from the bank
    Collapses from a gunshot to the head.

    A terrible bottomfeeder looms
    Under her nose; she smells blood
    Dripping from a dozen hooks
    Dangling from his mouth.

    His eyeballs slide out easy
    As a cash drawer.
    Each eye-socket a window
    To her soul—$ bills

    With goose-stepping Nazi clowns,
    Goose-stepping Russian clowns.
    Goose-stepping for Kim Jong Il—
    Why do all totalitarians goose-step?—

    Signs with hammers and sickles
    Pound and slash across her sight.
    A Che Guevara T-shirt floats by.
    She bleeds tax dollars through dilated veins.

    Morning shivers her awake again,
    Stumbling to the bathroom
    Where the mirror flashes
    In her face that same terrible 

    Bottomfeeder that for years has been
    Catching her dreams and throwing
    Them back as she chases each $,
    Never quite able to grasp enough.

    Image: Bottomfeeder

    The Colossal Flowerhorn

    owed to Sylvia Plath’s “Mirror

    Again, the nightmare begins:
    A son clamped tight to each foot
    Pulling him down under
    The brute waters of the river;
    He gasps,
    Imagines he’s drowning
    As his wife stands on the bank
    Shaking a canoe paddle.
    A colossal flowerhorn blooms from his nose;
    He spews blood
    Imagines a dozen hooks dangling
    From his mouth.
    His eyeballs slide out
    Searching the reaches of a netherworld.
    Each eye-socket a window
    Of some monster’s soul.
    His pink fins twirl and become knives.
    A yellow finch pecks at his first son’s ears
    A green finch pecks at his second son’s eyes.
    He cannot feel his hands
    Asleep on his pillow behind his head—
    He snores but does not wake
    Until morning blasts of sunlight pierce the window.
    Stumbling to the bathroom
    Nearly falling over the calico cat
    He turns on the shower tap
    And is relieved again that
    The liquid is water and not blood—
    A quick glance in the mirror,
    And the colossal flowerhorn blooms again from his nose.
    He is ready to shower now. 

    Image: Flowerhorn 

    The Terrible Fish

    (Final version, November 2012)

    owed to Sylvia Plath’s “Mirror

    The nightmare repeats itself:
    Her house clamped tight to her right foot
    Her car to her left pulling her down under
    The brute waters of a big pond
    Way out in the middle of nowhere.

    She gasps,
    Imagines she’s drowning
    While a vagrant lifts the cover
    Of the water peeking at her.
    A huge fish looms under her nose;
    She smells blood dripping
    From a smaller fish hanging
    Out of his mouth.
    His eyeballs slide out easy
    As the drawer of a cash register.
    Each eye-socket a big government
    Window to her pain: losing her $ bills
    To statist minnows gliding in
    And out of those windows.
    On the slippery bank
    Taxes, gasoline, and the price
    Of beans and rice
    Rocket beyond the blue of blues.
    Morning shivers her awake,
    Stumbling to the bathroom
    Where the mirror flashes
    In her face that same enormous fish
    That keeps catching her dreams
    And throwing them back
    As she struggles for each $,
    Never quite able to grasp enough.

    Image: “Big Fish Eat Little Fish,” engraving, by the Flemish artist Pieter van der Heyden after Pieter Bruegel the Elder. The engraving is signed with the name of Hieronymus Bosch, who was dead when the engraving was produced. The engraving was likely the work of Pieter Bruegel the Elder. Dated 1557. 9 x 11 5/8 in. (22.9 x 29.6 cm). Image courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

    III  Third Movement

    ilk & counting 

    a postmodernist masque for robert bly & that ilk; after a poetry workshop on translation, Ball State University, 1977

    ephemeral saxifrage
    blowing through
    field after field

    somewhere iron robert
    translates heaven into fog

    ripening to scant
    scent fruit twirling
    into a whirl

    even iron robert
    cannot bend the wind

    stars  back-biters
    bromides rock
    rock in barrel

    where does iron robert
    keeps his semi-colons

    after barrel
    somewhere a magic bee
    stood on green pollen

    iron robert floats
    like a goat in a moat

    Image:  Robert “Iron Robert” Blur Bly:  After a Painting of the Poetaster

    ilk & painting

    a postmodernist masque for robert bly & that ilk; after the painting titled, “Ceremonial Orgies by Dog-eaters” 

    ephemeral saxifrage
    blossoming
    field after field

    & barack hussein obama II ate dog flesh 
    nota bene he was barry soetoro
    when he did so chow down

    ripening to scant
    scent fruit twirling
    into a whirl

    & barack hussein obama II ate dog flesh 
    nota bene he was barry soetoro
    when he did so chow down

    stars  bitters
    bromides rock on
    rock in barrel

    & barack hussein obama II ate dog flesh 
    nota bene he was barry soetoro
    when he did so chow down 

    after barrel
    somewhere a magic bee
    stood on green pollen

    & barack hussein obama II ate dog flesh 
    nota bene he was barry soetoro
    when he did so chow down

    Image:  Ceremonial Orgies by Dog-eaters

    periwinkle

    for carlene

    ephemeral saxifrage
    blossoming
    field after field

    ripening to scant
    scent fruit twirling
    into a whirl

    stars  bitters
    bromides rock on
    rock in barrel

    after barrel
    somewhere a magic bee
    stood on green pollen

    Image:  Periwinkle

    emoticon con/m/n/mie

    owed to “a liberal sprinkler of semi-colons and half parentheses” in PCish & some text-talk

    s/he recognizes sewer talk when s/he talks it
    & ever since that useful little tool
    presented itself in cyber-space,
    s/he’s employed its dots and hooks
    to mitigate the vile vermin of her/is own verbiage.

    wanna call someone a slut :)
    stick a smiley face next to the sticky word
    & the slut will think U’v praised
    her/is slut choices & thus are willing
    to pay for her/is slut supplies.

    wanna smack down that stuck up sibling ;)
    give him/er a smiley face winky-dink
    while U tell him/er how much smarter
    ur mom thought U were.  s/he’ll think
    u r just kidding ;)  Ha! Ha! Ha! :0)

    wanna deliver a solid fist to the solar plexus
    about animal molestation, child battery, incest, etc . . .
    & make it seem like a tap on the wrist—
    U guessed it, a trusty little :)

    nothing is off limits to the liberal sprinkler
    of semi-colons & half parentheses.
    good grief!  s/he could even express sorrow :(
    if sewer talkers ever felt that emotion.

    NOTA BENE:  No PC in the following stanza . . . 

    Advice to the emoticonned:  Words matter.  Only
    Words matter.  Look at the words.
    Emoticons are just that, cons.
    Make Connie know you are on to her.

    Image emoticon

    IV  Fourth Movement

    “you will love your crooked neighbour . . . ” 

    Easy Liar

    for S. B., swooning as Auden sings,
    “O stand, stand at the window
     As the tears scald and start;
     You shall love your crooked neighbour
     With your crooked heart.”

    “False words are not only evil in themselves,
    but they infect the soul with evil.”  —Plato 

    “A lie can travel halfway around the world
    while the truth is putting on its shoes.”  –Mark Twain  

    The nose grows longer
    As each lie grows easier to tell:  
    She swears through straight, but yellowing teeth,
    “I can’t recall that.” 
    Of course, if she can’t re-call it,
    She never called it at all. She can’t remember
    A thing about all those cheap shots she took
    At you when you were kids. She can’t remember
    Calling you a bimbo and then insinuating you
    Might have aids. Or telling a dying grandmother that you
    Were dying of bulimia.  No, she will never remember
    Her bald-face brazen lies! 
    Bait and switch: 
    “I was not referring to myself
    But to society in general. Personally,
    I find nothing wrong with her marrying
    Another woman. Maybe a little creepy,
    But nothing wrong, nothing at all!” 
    All the while claiming to possess an open mind
    And soft heart for all humankind, regardless
    Of how different “they” are from “us.”
    Flame-throw and run away: 
    He’s taking an overload this semester,
    He’s working 36 hours at the Student Union,
    He’s taking his sister to ballet,  
    And his mom to cardiac therapy—
    But only after he’s deep in deficit
    Of making the case to support
    His latest whopper—leaving you
    Wondering why/how the conversation
    Went on as long as it did. 

    Break it off, break off Pinocchio’s nose,
    And close the gates of your attention.

    Image:  Pinocchio by Enrico Mazzanti (1852-1910) – the first illustrator (1883) of Le avventure di Pinocchio. Storia di un burattino – colored by Daniel DONNA

    V  Fifth Movement

    Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” —Romans 12:19

    Dr Frankenstink Crafts His Whimsy

    Fixated on fashioning life
    With unliving things, he
    Falls in love with Whimsy,
    Codifies her, imbues her
    With the stench of personality
    That he can sleep with
    Without sleep cocking her
    To unconsciousness.

    Rummage, rummage the trash heaps,
    The garbage bins, the dumps,
    And rotting flow of swill and sewage:

    Whimsy takes her ungodly shape—

    Big cardboard box head
    Empty except for butt
    Of chamber pot for mouth
    Needle-nose pliers for a snout
    Cash register $ $ for eyes.

    Short stature in height
    But makes up for it in width.
     Mold-speckled cabbage leaves cover
    Her big cardboard box head
    Broken wine bottles about her neck
    Her huge tree-stump legs mock
    The act of walking
    Flea collar of rabid dog around each wrist
    Barrel-drum arms that rub against
    Shag fecal-smattered carpet glued
    Against her sides
    Faking a dress, monstrous cum-stained sheets
    Swaddle her middle region—more an equator than a waist—
    Drooping down over the stumps, flowing with blood and urine
    Onto the ground.

    Dr Frankenstink loves his Whimsy,
    Locks her in his arms, croons to her
    A misbegotten lullaby that reminds him
    Of his murdered fiancée, after her last abortion.

    Image: Frontispiece to Mary Shelley, Frankenstein published by Colburn and Bentley, London 1831

    Finis

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  • God Save Us from Our Protectors

    God Save Us from Our Protectors

    for the youngest brother, in memoriam

    Before he went down by the river
    And put a bullet in his heart,
    The youngest brother
    Left books on his bed—books
    Opened to marked passages.
    He left those marked passages
    To speak to us after he had passed.
    But the oldest brother closed
    His brother’s message
    Before we could read it. 
    Was he embarrassed? 
    From what did he mean to spare us?
    What insight did he gain into the deed
    That made him need
    To hoard that knowledge?

    The oldest brother wanted to believe
    That someone else killed the youngest brother. 
    He said that way he could wade the grief
    Without the guilt.

    The middle brother stood and stared and wept.  

    The eldest did let us know
    That at the top of the page of a song lyric,
    The youngest had inscribed the date—May ——, 19——
    His last day down by the river.

    The youngest brother must have known
    About empty spaces; he must have known
    That the bullet that stopped his heart
    Would shatter more than a mere muscle,

    And so he left us messages —
    But the oldest brother . . . —

    God save us from our protectors.

  • Do Not Ruffle What Hellish Beasts Conceal

    Image:  Hellish Devil

    Do Not Ruffle What Hellish Beasts Conceal

    Th’ expense of spirit in a waste of shame
    Is lust in action; and till action, lust
    Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame
    Shakespeare Sonnet 129

    “The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost”
    —Alexander Pope, “Eloisa to Abelard

    Do not ruffle what hellish beasts conceal:
    Dank specters loom in gardens overgrown;
    Among the tombstones, dampened moss has sown
    Seeds of disease that time rushes to heal.
    You fled that haunted ground and sought appeal
    In cleansing waves, where brighter light was shown—
    The molded beast tried to shape you into his own,
    But Spirit forged forth from what devils reveal.

    Now, should you prod that beast from years decayed,
    Be ready for venom, tangled words, and fire;
    His bile will scorch the joys that you have made.
    Let present peace, not rancor, lift you higher—
    For only those who leave the past unswayed
    Can walk in Spirit, freed from the ragged falsifier.

  •  Lift Thou This Veil of Blindness

    Image:  Foggy Landscape

     Lift Thou This Veil of Blindness

    O, Blessèd Reality—Creator of all existence!
    I am Thy deluded child—cleanse me of delusion.
    I am Thy dark-brained creation—enlighten me.
    O, Lord of Life—heal me with Thine omnipresence.

    In the swirling maya world, I creep and crawl—
    My body wrinkles with strife and struggle.
    My mind beclouds from the ten-thousand things.
    O, Blessèd Light, suffuse me with Thine essence.

    In the bedimmed environs of grotesqueness
    In the battle din of getting and giving
    In the stronghold of deceit and depravity—
    O, Divine Reality, fling Thy peace upon me.

    From my blind eyes, lift this thick veil
    Of unreality that keeps me from Thy light.