My father taught me to count time in my mind
with ponies
my pretty ponies

One 'my pretty pony' takes a second to say

When in anticipation of something new
I'd count them with joy
and through my childhood years
many pretty ponies bounded
through my imagination
pulling seasons on a fast ride
towards the next adventure

each pony racing past in reckless abandon
hundreds through the years

Until the moment
some of my ponies froze for an eternity
never to fully recover

"Medulla Ossium"

guide your cartridge fingers
down the slender drain throat

overhead the rain of stars continues
burning embers of god
descend

people praying on the asphalt
gunfire and thunder
the sleek of fire is beginning
the landlines are failing

I can taste blood on the wind
as gatherers of no faith
in the last vehicles take

to the left is summer waning
to the right is summer fat
the moons oblivion smiling
down on mans fate
as its done again
and again

KILLERS
Words meant to kill
the son
cut deep into mother
and father
and like phantoms
wandering in time
haunt still
the living and the dead,
Something in us ends.
Nothing is ever the same
Again.

Parkinson's Abyss

stricken
by this hellish
affliction
their wounds know not
the cleansing of
bleeding
while time
ravages on
vile cruelty
of this
tiresome waiting game
takes its toll
on both
flesh and spirit

---------Anna's Revision Below----------

struck
by this hellish
affliction
their wounds know not
the cleansing
blood
of time

ravages a
vile cruelty

Lost in the metaphor of you,
I submit
one last time.
The shackles of persistence
hang like a low
dark cloud upon my shoulders
and truth is a key I wear around
my neck, weighing me down.

Knowing glances, and glaring scorn
were how King Rodney's rep was born.
Earth's gravitational pull aside,
King Rodney wanted to simply hide!
coercedly cast in public's eye
King Rodney, way too young to die.

Sorrow's sweaty palm on his brow
"Can't we all just get along, somehow?"
A troubled past has worn him down,
his worried grimace, a perpetual frown.
Decidedly cast into the public's eye
King Rodney, way too young to die.

I've walked wild trails for far too long
in my quest for solitude and game,
both back when I was young and strong
and now that I've grown old and lame.

Not for me the gentle ways
paved and free of briers and brush
tread on naught but sunny days,
trampled flat by steady rush.

Let such paths be left to others
who always choose the easy route,
who don't mind jostling with their brothers
in tame herds milling all about.

Form
-
-
By RW
-
1
-
Form
Form-less
words in a torrent
meet a dam with tiny holes
and I the boy observing
the trickle or the roar
sticking fingers in to control
volumes, tones
-
-
2
I the aspirant, squeezing
and stretching, strong-arming
nouns, verbs, adjectives
with the wrong size of wrench
-
I the technician, picking a template
with which to put clever twists
and spontaneous spurts of
un-spermatic lyric
-

If I could
tie rocks to clouds
give the angel of death
her wings,
I would love you any way
I could;

I would open my heart and let
you barge in unannounced
let you lay the foundation
of our home;

I would read the inscription
on this wall
between living and dying
with the braille of fingertips,
and the sweetness of a tongue;

I would descend like a dark angel
and steal you away.
Make you holy as a mountain.
Make love to you as if there
were no defeat.

don't cry for me when I am gone
don't brood and weep on my icon
don't query everything cosmic
those questions serve to make you sick
and truth from here will not be won

when mind on granite stones dwells on
one ends up spiritually wan
the topic's cyclic, not tragic
don't cry for me