Clothes
Walking back to the office after lunch,
I saw Hans. “Mister Isham, Mister Isham,”
He called out in his hurry, “Herr Wegner needs you.
A woman waiting for a border pass
Took poison, she is dead, and the police
Are there to take the body.” In the hall,
The secretaries stood outside their doors
Silently waiting with Wegner. “Sir,” he said,
“It was her answer on the questionnaire,
A clerk for the Gestapo. So it was.”
Within the outer office, by the row
Of wooden chairs, one lying on its side,
On the discolored brown linoleum floor
Under a GI blanket was the lost
Unmoving shape; uncovered, from a fold,
A dirty foot half out of a dirty shoe,
Once white, heel bent, the sole worn through, the skin
Bruised red and calloused, uncut toenails curved
And veined like an old ivory. No one spoke.
Police stood at attention by a stretcher.
After an empty moment, suddenly
Bent over as if taken by a cramp,
I sobbed out loud and, on my uniform,
Vomited up my lunch—over the tie,
The polished buttons and insignia,
The little strips of color and the green
Eisenhower jacket with its Eagle patch,
The taut pants in a crease, the glistening jump-boots—
Vomiting and still sobbing, like a child
Awakened in the night, and sick. Wegner and Hans
Held me, murmuring, “Ach, dear sir, the war
Is over and not over, such things happen.”
While no one else moved, Frau Schmidt brought a towel
To clean me off before Hans walked me back,
My arm across his shoulders and I retelling
The story of how, near Zell am See, we found,
Hung from a tree in leaf, the final sack
Of bones, in rotted Wehrmacht green. In the house
An SS lord had furnished for his mistress—
Deep sofas, Persian rugs, and velvet drapes—
Frau König took my clothes. In my own room,
Wearing the Gucci robe Bouchard had taken
From a fine house before we got to Ulm,
Instead of lying down to rest, I studied
The book I read for German with Frau Schmidt,
Goethe’s Italian Journey. Through the window,
The Watchman’s upper slopes were shadows, green
And purple with the afternoon, its snows
Melting, its double peaks the victory sign.
poem by Edgar Bowers
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Sun Green
Sun Green started makin' waves
On the day that Grandpa died
Speakin' out against anything
Unjust or packed with lies
She chained herself to a statue of an eagle
In the lobby of Power Co.
And started yelling through a megaphone,
"There's corruption on the highest floor."
Suits poured out of elevators
"You're all dirty."
Phoneheads began to speak
"You can't trust any of them."
Security couldn't get her down
She was welded to the eagle's beak.
Sun Green leaned into that megaphone, said,
"Truth is all I seek."
Security brought in some blow torches
News cameras recorded her speech,
"When the city is plunged into darkness
by an unpredicted rolling blackout
The White House always blames the governor
Saying the solution is to vote him out."
On top of that great bronze eagle
Sun's voice was loud and clear. She said,
"Power Co's working with the White House
to paralyze our state with fear."
It was a golden moment
In the history of TV news
No one could believe it
It just got great reviews
"Hey, Mr. Clean, you're dirty now, too.
Hey, Mr. Clean, you're dirty now, too.
Hey, Mr. Clean, you're dirty now, too.
Hey, Mr. Clean, you're dirty now, too."
The Imitators were playing
Down at Jon Lee's bar
When Sun went down to see em
Someone followed her in a car
Now when she goes dancin'
She has to watch her back
The FBI just trashed her room
One of them kicked her cat
Damn thing scratched his leg
So he had to shoot it dead
And leave it lyin' in a puddle of blood
At the foot of Sun Green's bed
Jon Lee's was rockin'
The Imitators drove it home
Sun was dancin' up a heat wave
For awhile she was all alone
When up walked a tall stranger
Shadowed her move to move
In perfect unison
A supernatural groove
He took her by the hand
And the room began to spin
He said, "I'm Earth; Earth Brown.
You know the shape I'm in.
"I'm leavin' tonight for Alaska
And I want you to come in the spring
And be a goddess in the planet wars
And save the living things.
"I'm ready to go right now,"
Sun Green told Earth Brown
"Let's go back to my place,
pick up my cat, and leave this town behind."
"Hey, Mr. Clean, you're dirty now, too.
Hey, Mr. Clean, you're dirty now, too.
Hey, Mr. Clean, you're dirty now, too.
Hey, Mr. Clean."
Next day Sun Green got busted for pot
And it made the headline news
But then the charges all got dropped
And the story gets confused
I'd still like to meet Julia Butterfly
And see what remedy brings
And be a goddess in the planet wars
Try to save the living things
"But that might not be easy
Livin' on the run
Mother Earth has many enemies
There's much work to be done
"Hey, Mr. Clean, you're dirty now, too.
Hey, Mr. Clean, you're dirty now, too.
Hey, Mr. Clean, you're dirty now, too.
Hey, Mr. Clean.
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ass Speaker Mutant - Part One
Once upon a time, in far away Germany, a happy couple waits for their childs to born.
All is well. All examinations are normal and, finaly, the great day came.
Herr Karl and his wife, Frau Inga, went to the hospital, but, after the childbirth the hospital was surrounded by a terrible rumor.
The newborn was transferred to a restricted nursery and his parents were not allowed to view it.
Herr Karl was angry with the doctors who did not let him see his son.
- It's not possible that's happening something with my son and you don't tell why.
Frau Inga was smarter.
He pretended to be resigned and went to the nursery where her son.
The doctors were left no choice but to tell all to Karl.
- Herr Karl, your son was born with an anomalous formation in his digestive system. We did not want to do it through this. would be easier to give the child as dead.
Frau Inga, finaly arrived at the nursery and found his son, isolated from everything.
- Tell me just once. What has my son? Said Herr Karl, nervous.
- His son was born with the digestive system reversed his anus is in the face, and his mouth is on the buttocks.
Herr Karl was paralyzed.
Frau Inga took his son in his arms, and noticed the strange mouth. A green and fetid secretion ran down a corner. She noted that it was feces. At that moment the baby started crying and her crying came from the buttocks. Startled, she turned and was horrified to discover that the child's mouth was on the butt.
The nurses prevented her and the baby to fall when she fainted.
poem by Aschelminto Da Silva
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Little Hans
Lead vocal: graham dye
Little hans, little hans, what do you see?
The worlds is full of big surprises
Little hans, little hans, what can they be?
They come in many shapes and sizes
Little boys always love to play
But something is not quite right
Little hans wont come out today
Hes scared of a horse that might bite
Little hans, little hans, what can it be?
Your thoughts are filled with such confusion
Little hans, little hans when will you see?
Youre barking up the wrong conclusion
Professor man asks him oh so nicely
Why will you not come out?
Little hans tells him most politely
What he is thinking about
A ride in a tram, a lily white lamb, raspberry jam
Little hans, little hans, where will you go?
The world is full of compromises
Little hans, little hans, how will you know?
The come in many strange disguises
Professor man shakes his head and wonders
How will he work it out?
Little hans tells him quite precisely
What hes been dreaming about
I jump in the bath, I make myself laugh, I ride a giraffe
Little hans, little hans, I found a clue
I think Ive made the right connection
Little hans, little hans, all I can do
Is give a common sense injection
Little boys grow up just like daddy
Professor man has no doubt
Little hans goes to sleep and wonders
What he was talking about
song performed by by Alan Parsons Project
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Clear-seeing
Bavaria, 1946
The clairvoyante, a major general’s wife,
The secretaries’ sibyl, read the letters
They brought her from their GI soldier-lovers,
Interpreting the script. I went along
One afternoon with writing of my own.
“This writing is by one you cannot trust,”
She frowned, and all the secretaries smiled.
But when she took my palm, she read the brown
Fingers for too much smoking and the lines
Of time and fate for a long and famous life.
“Soon you will take a trip by land and sea.”
Across the hall, her husband, half asleep
And propped high on his pillows, when I bent
To shake his hand, seeing my uniform,
Called in a whisper as if he still dreamed,
“I told him not to go to Russia!” Then,
Remembering the woman at my jeep,
Among the smoking tanks and half-tracks, crying,
“My husband fell in Russia!” I thought I saw
For him the summer uniforms in snow,
Partisans, savage reprisals, day-long strafing,
Long lines of prisoners never to return,
Comrades armless, legless, and blind. But he,
Clutching my sleeve to pull me closer, whispered,
“It was the SS did it, not my men.
The week before the armistice, they took
Three just-conscripted boys who were afraid
And hanged them, German children, the sky green
Above the uniforms too big for them,
As we saw when we found and cut them down.
It was then that I despaired to live or die.”
The secretaries waiting with their coats on,
She thanked me for my visit, and, “Next week
Bring cigarettes and coffee, please,” she said.
poem by Edgar Bowers
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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All I Need From You Is That You Clean Me, Mama
you lay a mat on the floor
for you to understand dirt and its implications its complications
to the wall
or to the center table and to the rest of the parts of your house,
dirt must be eradicated, that is your rule number one,
so you put lots of mats and rugs, doormats, floormats,
in every door in every corner of the floor
all dirts are not welcome,
it is as though you have studied dirt at length for years,
what is dirt? what are the kinds of dirt? the causes of dirt?
the consequences of dirt? the historical background of dirt,
and your recommendations finally about
dirt
its control and eradication,
you have talked about dirt and how you disliked it,
how you have driven dirt away from this house
how you called they police when dirt resisted to leave
and of course they all were arrested and jailed
without bond
the judge convicted dirt on the basis of those dirty exhibits
and dirty testimonial evidence,
dirt must be poisoned by lethal injection, hanged, electrocuted,
to make them disappear forever
that is your firm belief
your solid conviction
the sound philosophy of
your society
you are talking to me, and i will now tell you who am i really,
my name, the place where i live, my family and how i am related to you,
mother, i am dirt, my name is dirty, my family is dirty,
i live in a dirty place, i am your son,
i cannot step on your doormat, immediately i must leave now
you will report me to the police and i will be arrested
and jailed and even be hanged dead,
all i need is only that you clean me, mama.
now, please........
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Being Green
(joe raposo)
One day, as I was walking through my garden, I saw a little frog lying on the ground. and I thought he was sick. so I picked him up and he wasnt sick at all. he was very sad, and he was crying.
I said: whats a matter with you, little frog? and he looked up at me with a lump in his throat, and he said: wribbit!
It aint easy being green
Having to spend each day the color of the leaves
When I think, I think it would be nicer being red
Or yellow or gold
You see, it aint easy being green
It seems to blend in with so many other ordinary things
And then, sometimes, sometimes people pass over you
Because youre not standing out like sparkles on the water
Or like the stars in the sky
But did you know that green is the color of spring
And green can be big like an ocean
And important like a mountain
And cool and friendly-like
Or tall and skinny like a tree
And me
But when green is all there is to be
It kind of makes you wonder why
Why wonder, wonder why?
Hey, Im green and I think itll do fine
cause green is just what I wanna be
cause green is beautiful, baby
Right on green
And anyway, moneys green
Wribbit
song performed by by Diana Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Is The Army Mister Jones
sheet music version:]
A bunch of frightened rookies were list'ning filled with awe
They listened while a sergeant was laying down the law
They stood there at attention, their faces turning red
The sergeant looked them over and this is what he said
This is the Army, Mister Jones!
No private rooms or telephones
You had your breakfast in bed before
But you won't have it there any more
This is the Army, Mister Green!
We like the barracks nice and clean
You had a housemaid to clean your floor
But she won't help you out any more
Do what the buglers command
They're in the Army and not in a band
This is the Army, Mister Brown!
You and your baby went to town
She had you worried but this is war
And she won't worry you anymore
song performed by by Irving Berlin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bitter Green
Upon the bitter green she walked the hills above the town
Echo to her footsteps as soft as eider down
Waiting for her master to kiss away her tears
Waiting through the years
Bitter green they called her
Walking in the sun
Loving everyone that she met
Bitter green they called her
Waiting in the sun
Waiting for someone to take her home
Some say he was a sailor who died away at sea
Some say he was a prisoner who never was set free
Lost upon the ocean he died there in the mist
Dreaming of her kiss
Bitter green they called her
Walking in the sun
Loving everyone that she met
Bitter green they called her
Waiting in the sun
Waiting for someone to take her home
But now the bitter green is gone, the hills have turned to rust
There comes a weary stranger, his tears fall in the dust
Kneeling by the churchyard in the autumn mist
Dreaming of a kiss
Bitter green they called her
Walking in the sun
Loving everyone that she met
Bitter green they called her
Waiting in the sun
Waiting for someone to take her home
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Leapin' Lizards or How to Get the Most Out Your Geico (so easy a caveman can do it)
Hans Kurt Kubus,58, had a 'thing' for lizards.
This German knows his insurance policies,
- and he is no Neanderthal man who likes gizzards.
Kubus, No, not the video game cubis, attached 44 lizards to his body,
He attempted to smuggle them out of New Zealand, Scott free.
Hans had the geckos and skinks within his underwear,
I don't why men put things in there underwear,
I cannot believe they don't care.
Hans did not attempt to light his britches on fire.
As the Muslim terrorist tried to do as he and others flew to Detroit,
The situation was, at the time, dire.
But Hans was caught, he was not as smart as a caveman,
A caveman in New Zealend.
Hans was arrested and sentenced to two weeks in prison and fined $3,450
-before he was deported back to Germany.
Hans Kurt Kubus might try an asp or viper next time around,
-he will probably take pass.
Hans Kurt Kubus is not as smart as New Zealand caveman, -he is a real dumb a$$.
1-31-10
poem by Joe Rosochacki
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... & The Mouse Police Never Sleeps
Muscled, black with steel-green eye
Swishing through the rye grass
With thoughts of mouse-and-apple pie.
Tail balancing at half-mast.
...and the mouse police never sleeps ---
Lying in the cherry tree.
Savage bed foot-warmer of purest feline ancestry.
Look out, little furry folk!
Hes the all-night working cat.
Eats but one in every ten ---
Leaves the others on the mat.
...and the mouse police never sleeps ---
Waiting by the cellar door.
Window-box town crier;
Birth and death registrar.
With claws that rake a furrow red ---
Licensed to multilate.
From warm milk on a lazy day
To dawn patrol on hungry hate.
...no, the mouse police never sleeps ---
Climbing on the ivy.
Windy roof-top weathercock.
Warm-blooded night on a cold tile.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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...and The Mouse Police Never Sleeps
Muscled, black with steel-green eye
Swishing through the rye grass
With thoughts of mouse-and-apple pie.
Tail balancing at half-mast.
...and the mouse police never sleeps ---
Lying in the cherry tree.
Savage bed foot-warmer of purest feline ancestry.
Look out, little furry folk!
He's the all-night working cat.
Eats but one in every ten ---
Leaves the others on the mat.
...and the mouse police never sleeps ---
Waiting by the cellar door.
Window-box town crier;
Birth and death registrar.
With claws that rake a furrow red ---
Licensed to multilate.
From warm milk on a lazy day
To dawn patrol on hungry hate.
...no, the mouse police never sleeps ---
Climbing on the ivy.
Windy roof-top weathercock.
Warm-blooded night on a cold tile.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For My Foster Sister (about growing up with mom drunk)
We used to run through the sprinkler
we double jumped & skipped rope
we danced along to the radio
our lives were filled with hope
then something made her dad leave
and soon her mom was always drunk
she didn't have clean clothes to wear
she often felt like a dirty punk
she didn't have anyone to talk to
and the shades were always pulled tight
her mom didn't want any noise
and hated when she turned on the light
she no longer made her lunch
and asleep when she came home
she wore a ratty bathrobe
and never used a comb
it's a good thing the house was paid for
so she never had to sleep in the street
but if she didn't cash in coke bottles
she would never have anything to eat
nobody ever called the cops
they lived out towards the woods
she learned how to steal real well
and that's how she brought home goods
Mom used her welfare money
to buy her favorite drink
she ate all her leftovers
and put dishes in the sink
She didn't want a foster family
but was too scared not to tell
the day she found her on the floor
she told me her mom wasn't well
But instead of speaking out
She left home that day
she slept under the railway pass
got to school, ran all the way
We don't know who called the cops
but they cornered her in the hall
took her to the counselors office
where she stood against the wall
They told her - she had to move
in with a foster family
She didn't want to leave her mom
but is how it was to be
She cried at the funeral
for a mom who wasn't there
and moved around a lot after that
her mom's death too much to bear
She graduated college
just the other day
that foster family that took her in
we helped her make her own way
She never thought she'd love again
after her mom was gone
but we've learned a lot since then
and we know her mom was wrong
When her dad left he took her pride
and she lost all control
she couldn't raise her by herself
with booze she drowned her soul
We've been to her grave
and planted a flower cover
cause even though she was a drunk
she still her mother
poem by Linda Racaniello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Final Door.......
Brown house
Grey smiles
Green green grass
Black shoes
Crystal tears with heart felt whispers
Hugs
Blue sky with cream teeth
Green green grass
(hold that thought)
Glassed water grasped
Taut innards
Flowers brought
White horses
Braided manes
White lilies
Window pane
White carriage
To carry forth
Green green grass
Hold that thought
Passing traffic
Collars grasped
Blurry images
Tend then pass
Crystal tears
Smart black tie
Shake and smile
Avoid the eye
Deep breath enter in
Listen watch
Let them begin
Then stare at the floor
'Bye bye darling'
Open door
poem by Karen Sinclair
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I'm Waiting For The Man
David Bowie---I'm Waiting For The Man
Words and music by Lou Reed
I'm waiting for the man
Twenty six dollars in my hand
Up to Lexington, One Two Five
So sick and dirty more dead than alive
I'm waiting for the man
Hey white boy, what you doing uptown?
Hey white boy, you're chasing all the women around
Oh pardon me sir it's furthest from my mind
I'm just looking for a good friend of mine
I'm waiting for the man
Here he comes, he's all dressed in black
PR shoes, and a big straw hat
He's never early, he's always late
First thing you learn is that you've always got to wait
I'm waiting for the man
Brown stone building and three flights of stairs
Nobody stops you 'cause nobody cares
He's got the works and he gives you sweet taste
But then you've got to split because you've got no time to waste
I'm waiting for the man
Baby don't you holler, darling don't you scream and shout
I'm feeling good, I'm going to work it on out
I'm feeling good, I'm feeling so fine
Until tomorrow but that's just another time
I'm waiting for the man
I'm waiting for the man
Twenty six dollars lying there in my hand
Up to Lexington, One Two Five five
So sick and dirty more dead than alive
I'm waiting for the man
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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By My Window At The Second Floor Of My Office
the strong wind
last night
brought it by
the window
of this second floor
office
rotten branch
with a lichen still
growing
a patch of green
on brown bark
a bottle of mineral
water is empty
and it is beside it
the glass window
shows it
and so i notice it
not my fault
why i am saying
about their
existence
again these things
are not
significant
except perhaps
the strong wind
last night
it gave us fear
amidst the darkness
when all the
lights turned
off
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Shattered windows, Colors of white
Across the street is a new house with a room painted red, with no holes of white.
Next to me, a house purple, with its color pealing off, with holes of black and white
At the end of the street, an old house once yellow, what now remains white.
The sound of a hammer building a house, entering a place with a color unknown.
On the street,
Windows covered with ice
Some shine with light.
Some broken
Some fixed
Some lost, out of sight.
A house, two blocks from here.
Shines with lights of yellow, red, and green everywhere.
A wall keeping the wind from blowing anywhere.
The house next door, at the dawn of the day.
Paints its room black, and peals the color away.
The wall crumbles.
The wind blows across the colors of yellow, red and green
Breaks all the windows.
Turns the yellow to blue, red to black, and green to white.
The house two blocks away.
Adds a line of yellow red and green everyday.
To allow the house of blue, black and white to shine for us some day.
poem by Linda ErikssonBique
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Out of the Blue A Patch of Green
-****Rousseau alleged to have used
a pallette of a hundred and some-odd
different greens
in one painting********
-------------------------
There was an empty table
Next to mine
She walked by dressed in green
Holding her coffee she took a spare chair
Then sat down her back to me
She got my attention
My guess was
She was not
Encouraging nor
Expecting company
After the green hit me
Came the pleasent smell
Over the roasting coffee
It was like in the cartoons
When the drawing of the scent
Comes under the guy's nose
Lifts him off his seat
He floats acrosss the room
Led by his nose
By the visable wafts
Who knows what scent it was
I suppose there are some
Who can tell and know its name
All I knew
It was pulling on me
Back to the green in the chair
Darker green at the seams
Slacks lighter green
Leather jacket and
Shoes both different green
Tail of a sweater
Below back of the jacket
Damn another darker green
I wish I had names
for all these greens
Ankles are barely showing
A light tan do they still call it hose
A beige I guess
Probably has a better
Brand name I also don't know
I'm writing this down
As fast as I can
I was working on other stuff
But this is too good to forget
Living in the moment observing
I was thinking
This green is going
To be gone soon
I'm almost out of writing paper
To describe anything more
My coffee's getting cold
What's she here for
To be seen
To just drink coffee
Pass the time until
I look up the green is gone
All I'm left with is
A cold cup of coffee
And this
For you to read
poem by Tom J. Mariani
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Awful God
Richard Bryce was a mystery,
He lived on a back street lot,
The house was the old half-timbered sort,
Paint peeled on the old wainscot,
The blinds were drawn through the day and night
And the garden a neighbourhood moan,
Full of the bodies of rusting cars
And creepers, all overgrown.
We rarely saw him out in the street
But he'd peep from the side of blinds,
And stories were told in the neighbourhood
That were often more harsh than kind,
There'd been a wife and a daughter once
But they hadn't been seen in years,
Since the echoing raft of arguments,
Doors slammed, and a flood of tears.
Old Grandpa Bryce had lived in the house
Since thirty odd years before,
He'd worked in the woollen fulling mill
‘Til it closed, just after the War,
His son had drowned in the old mill stream,
Was caught in the paddle wheel,
And Grandpa Bryce was left with the child,
To raise, and be brought to heel.
For Grandpa Bryce was a steely man
Who lived his life by the book,
More like a Prophet, this Abraham
Believed, whatever it took,
That ‘spare the rod and spoil the child'
Would be how that his Grandson learned,
As he laid the rod across Richard's back
‘Til the flesh turned red, and burned.
There was never a ministering angel there
To offer the boy relief,
Only the hard-edged wooden pew
In the church, on a Sunday eve,
And Abraham led the final prayer
In a voice that would damn and blight,
‘Beware you sinners, the Awful God
Will come unseen in the night! '
Richard's mother had died in pain
In the blood of the afterbirth,
She never returned to her home again
But was placed, six foot in the earth,
He never knew of a mother's love,
But only a Grandpa's pain,
And Bryce had ruled the daughter and wife
‘Til they fled one night, in the rain.
The house was suddenly silent then
Just two of them, left alone,
Grandpa suddenly old and frail,
He never went out on his own,
And Richard boarded the windows up
So you couldn't see in from the street,
It looked like an old abandoned place
‘Til the police called round, last week.
We all stood out in the street and watched
As Richard came out of the house,
His hands were cuffed and his hair stood up
And he looked quite down in the mouth,
There must have been twenty cops in there,
All milling around the place,
And one threw up in a paper cup
As we strained to look at his face.
It all came out in a day or two
Just what they had found in there,
The place was sparse, but a giant cross
Stood gaunt in the putrid air,
The skeleton of old Grandpa Bryce
Had been crucified, up tight,
And nailed to his skull: ‘The Awful God
Will come unseen in the night! '
16 September 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Eyes Of Mr D (Part 4)
Entering the flat
the Constable found no one there.
He searched every room,
nothing, only the fired gun on a note
left on the table.
He had noticed the back window
was left slightly ajar.
He picked up the note
and quickly read it through,
then put it in his pocket
along with the gun.
He smiled to the neighbour
as he left the flat.
He told her to lock it;
Mr D would be coming back.
At the car he got in
saying that,
they had to go back
to the station.
He sat on a bench
near the waters edge.
The white walking stick
resting between his legs.
He could not look at his watch,
as that would give the game away.
A blind man is not supposed to see,
so he had no idea of the time.
All he could tell
that day was turning into night.
He stood up;
he had to stretch his legs.
He moved along to
the bench by the bridge.
The dark waters of the lake,
lapped against the shore.
Then he heard the footsteps
walking across the wooden bridge.
He knew by the sound
they were of a woman’s shoe.
He did not look up
to see who it was,
just listened, as they got closer,
until they were in front of him.
He could now see her face,
under the light of the moon.
Her hair was dark,
and danced on her shoulders.
He wanted to say something,
but though he better not.
The killer could be lurking,
in the bushes somewhere,
waiting for his chance,
when he thought
the coast was clear.
She stopped and stood,
near the waters edge;
she watched the moon’s silver finger
dance on the breeze-ruffled waves.
He sat unnoticed except
for his white walking stick.
The blind could see nothing
at least that is what he hoped
anyone passing would think.
Then from the darkness, he emerged.
A mask of death he wore.
He moved quietly up behind the woman,
extended his hands out to her neck.
To be concluded……
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Urn....
He finally pulled in the drive.
Another endless night at work.
Exhausted, he turned off the car,
and stumbled for the back door.
The neighborhood cat rubbed
against his legs as he fumbled
for the key.
As he opened the door, he noticed
that the light over the sink was on.
Shaking his head, he shrugged, and set
down his lunchbox.
He reached in the cupboard for the
bottle and a glass. He poured a small
shot, and hesitated for a moment.
He could hear the night just outside
the window. Something inside of
him let down. He kicked back the shot,
and headed for the bathroom.
A quick shower, and he found his way
to the bedroom. Lying naked on the
bed, he lit a smoke, trying not to think.
He could hear the ticking of the clock in
the hallway. He put out the cigarette, and
dozed.
He awakened to the scent of her perfume.
He heard her voice, whispering, 'be still'.
He felt the presence of her body in the bed.
Her long hair draped across his face. He
felt her on top of him, her heat and her desire.
He raised his face to kiss her....
And then she was gone! Startled, he groped
at the bed, clutching air. He sat up and flipped
on the lamp.
The room was empty. A few crumpled dirty
clothes in the floor. The book he'd been reading
on the nightstand. But no sign of her!
His hands shaking, he lit a smoke, and blinked.
He looked around the room again.
Every nook, every cranny, every crack in the paint.
Finally, his eyes fixed on her dresser.
A picture of her on their wedding day. A half empty
bottle of her favorite perfume. And the urn.... the
urn, with her wedding ring lying on the base.
He flipped off the lamp, and wept.
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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