we will not be loners

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we will not be loners
we will run with the pack
and think nothing of going back
we will not be loners
we will live in a city
full of lovers and hoods
screaming for the moon
and baying for blood
we will not be loners
we will learn how to write
in upper case
and use punctuation
we will be punctual for work
which we will find
to put bread and beer on the table
we will not be loners
we will ask ancient people
to teach us
how to love and multiply
we will not be loners

She Thinks of Me at Least Once a Year

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She thinks of me at least once a year
She never was sure if it was love or fear
Undeserved emotion or mere empathy
For a creature rare as a quotamonee

She was young when we first met
I was seven years her senior
A big boy acting like junior
I swept her off her feet

Always tongue-tied
Heart in sleeve hogtied
13 marauders raided her heart
Her castle walls held rampart

But the gods were unwilling
Gave me no grace, muses unsmiling
Nyx sent her nocturnal hordes
Pushed me back to the sad overlord

Where messages vanish
In fields of dead bodies
Regret and thoughts of Hades
Deaf to words admonish

I write of nursery rhymes
When the finger of poesy
Is caught in cookie-jar mimes
Of middle-age fancy

Forgive my daring, light of Ley
Princess of my youth in fields of hay
I sing of bitter fruit hanging on dead branch
Melodies, words they work perchance

The Arrogance

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With arrogance that should only belong to God
she breaks my heart.
Fearing neither karmic outcome or the speed of my hand
she smiles while cutting up vows like paper falling on floor.
The betrayal of ultimate candlelit dinners
whispered flirtations sinking in wine
are ancient recalls of moonlight caught in lace curtains.
Will the victim live through blotter reports
blood dripping on snow
the cliché of shared movies, shred tickets?
The query of final judgment
will prove a pretty smirk
is not the right to hurt mock.

Trois Femmes sur la Cote a.k.a. Three Females on a Beached Will

(For Jane)

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The girl, the woman, the lady walk
along the boulevard of spoken screams
Along the coast where suns bobbing up and sinking
Are multi-colored balls children play with on the grassy lawns
Captive of concrete marble slabs, benches for weary flesh and soul

Every rising of the sun is a new year of whorls in the tree of strife
Love confounds all but the purest of spirit
Those who need not the wars of affection
Point and go where drizzles and rainbows call
Whispering vows and a skip and a jig