going once, going twice.....

Who would have thought today would be too late
to discover those things I had in my possession yesterday
so I must cherish them like there is no tomorrow
.

Just an inkling in time, a minutia of life
is like a dew covered rain forest that disappears;
who would have thought today would be too late
.

Openly accepting the woman that lives within my heart
can only assist and sweeten my capacity
to discover those things I had in my possession yesterday
.

But the dreams that I may realize will not in any way
alter the feelings that I hold for these ever fleeting moments
so I must cherish them like there is no tomorrow

Not flawless

Strolling down Ditmars Avenue, thinking of all there was to do before I would propose, the home I would refurbish, that feminine wounded heart that needed to heal. I didn't even notice his hand or his pockmarked face, a pickpocket, as he lifted the diamond I intended for her. Three more things for the list; pay better attention, buy a new ring, and insure it.

Which witch is it?

Metaphysical bookstores new
seem to accrue
a clientele
under a spell

Yet christian bookstores seem to boast
the holy ghost
which sounds to me
like a banshee

So tell me can you really say
what store today
holds the appeal
of all that's real?

.

I've heard "It's in the eyes"

Like fog laden mirrors reflect only haze, the eyes of the dead can no longer gaze
although they appear to stare into space, the vision of such is damned hard to erase

Awkward to handle until rigor sets in, flopping around like a limp thespian
unaware of the crowd of bystanders there, all craning to see, some deeply in prayer
.

Or even make out a sheet covered form, that no longer breathes, lost to the storm
of uninterrupted, never ending malaise, those lingering, those fatal, long final days
.

There's always that one, you see is a skeptic, can't fathom that shell is no longer septic
I wish we could just remember the good, if only their trek could be more understood
.

I'm sure it's acceptance that is hard to find, I know there are some who feel left behind
but death is not where I want to follow, no matter how hard being alone is to swallow
.

I'll let it suffice, that my pillow be damp, and hide my fears like the greatest champ
move on, anew, forget that sickening glaze, the eyes of the dead that no longer gaze

.

Twenty Seven Red

An expensive high, I mustn't lie
it grabs and holds your attention
Temporary as it may be, at times
it can dwindle ones pension
.

During the roll, or as it is dealt
sensibility sometimes omitted
Laying down dough just on a hunch
really should not be permitted
.

A free country it is, where I can win
or end my days in a shamble
do as I wish, spend till I'm broke
after all it's only a gamble

The Itsy Bitsy Siren

Maybe a somewhat boring existence. For several days now I have been watching the antics of a spider, yes a spider who has taken up residence under one of the eaves of my house. I have watched from day one when it began its first web straight through today ( 3 webs later ) and it may sound odd but this little arachnid sure has stamina. This morning for the first time I watched "the hunt" and it spurred me to write the following; I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The Itsy Bitsy Siren


Glistening filaments coated with dew,
suspending neat packages, not just a few
looks nearly abandoned during each daylight
yet a buzz of activity all through the night

.

When it seems to encourage every mosquito and midge
to try to fly through it and adhere to a ridge
tangled and snared like flying rats in a trap
their seconds are numbered before it's a wrap
.

Lighter than air and stronger than steel
a floating boudoir with some desirous appeal
or hence it must seem to each unknowing moth
who when injected with enzymes turns into a broth
.

Airborne pieces of lint and small bits of hay
are culled from her web all during the day
to prepare for the eve when it's time to clobber
unsuspecting prey who are turned into slobber
.

Eight shiny legs, slender and pointed,
appear carefully tended, almost anointed,
ready to scurry and work on demand
delicately placed, each on a strand

.

The dew that I mention is truly a foe
which causes her mansion to actually show
I think she's a widow but does never wail
and where she has been there's never a trail
.

Disgust and fear she instills in most men
almost as chilling as World War Twos Bren
looks tiny, petite, but has venomous airs
and all over her body she sports tiny hairs
.

A master at hunting, knows how to enthral
she'll take them all on, the big and the small
apparently fearless and on the ball
yet if she could write I know it'd be scrawl
.

Call me ridiculous, call me a fool
but things like this can make me drool
knowing that this spider is fully content
doing the only thing she's alive for, what she was meant

.

.

DS

Nata 1918 - Morta 1920 - Little Rosalia

It was in Palermo I recall that overcast day
unlike the majority of my splendorous stay
Architecture so grand, regal and proud
Sicilians all hurrying despite the great crowd

.

The "Boot" of the mainland not far away indeed
was calling me back as if I were it's seed
But that same morning I had but one agenda
to see Rosalia Lombardo, yes, still ever so tender

.

See, she was the highlight, a Capuchin claim to fame
yet I wanted to spy it all, every monk, every lane
which housed her mates, all still in their death
straddled side by side, long since their last breath

.

All the ruins I had seen each day since the start
had not prepared me at all for the feelings today would impart
Not once did I ponder where all the people had gone
I was overly enthralled with the heft, with the brawn

.
But when I entered the cavernous mausoleum of sorts,
the catacombs with walls lined with lime not with quartz
there was a coolness in the air, it was natural they said
perhaps this is what helped in preserving their dead

.
Eight thousand in all literally hung in this abode
all shapes and all sizes, to many this had been bestowed
as the best place to lie, some stately some royal
some prone in mock coffins, some laid in a coil

.
Wilted bouquets, relics and toys lined almost each wall
dates to the sixteenth century could be made out in scrawl
Skeletons, mummy like, bones, hair and clothes
at first was horrific, should have been sacred, not exposed

.
Slowly I walked my way down each section and saw
that I was not the only person pulled by the draw
of the dead that were here for each eye to view
perhaps this is what helped make me construe

.

That this was not eerie, not disgusting not vile
I thought "these are their memorials" and managed a smile
Twas then the sensation hit me with a great whack
I had been "Stung by the Splendor of Sudden Black."