From the side of the hill
my sight captures flat pasture,
part orchard,
part garden.

A full moon illuminates
my ready-trotted route
glistening with mud.
At its end, a rolled hollow,
a lit tree-
bed and breakfast.

This is what I live for,
how I survive.
I don't ask for much,
ignorant to what's on the other side.
I know my limits.

Further up the *****
there are more mouths,
dug out, living in brambles,
a natural, comfortable camouflage-
a bed of roses.

When I sleep,
in the blink of an eye
you vanish,
dreams exploding blood and gore
to which I once bore witness.

I try to ignore the intrusion.

What goes on in daylight
belongs to you.
How can you live in Paradise
with death on your side?

The bulk of me shudders to think!

Whatever happened to passion?
You're pleased as a starved flea
finding a host.
Everything has its predator-
yours is your own!

Sniffing the air,
I smell your cold heart
raw and pumping,
seeking a pastime
to glitter your world
at our expense.

Eat what you've already murdered,
bought, hoarded in your larder!
You don't need another corpse
on your conscience.

If you lived simply by instinct,
what would you do?

there will be no poetry tonight,
the sky is clear and if'n there be a moon
                    there will be light.

the traffic plays a base note tune,
the frost lands softly, a delight,
nothing sinks faster than a frozen balloon.

there will be light,
that shines into the lives of ruin,
gathered in packs, of two or three this night.

the tears that fall on this freezing night, collect in a heated spoon,
there will be a night light,
whereever the homeless sleep, entrances, streetlights of even the new moon,

there will be light,
snow by Sunday a boon,
for the ski hills and plowmen who,
have not made any money to go to Cancun,

but there will be no poetry tonight,
the dog is ill and there is no clue in,
the stars as to what is wrong, but there will be light.



©DWE012014

On the day his temper boiled,
she'd counted fourteen jars,
pleased with her achievement.
Then Vesuvius erupted
like the pan of orange jam.

He slammed out and left her
with fourteen jars made just
for him  by the woman whose
saddened heart sank to the bottom
of each bitter ***.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

Plastic,
plastic covers my natural voice.

I am neoprene, with gasoline undertones.
So peel the layers, find my truth.

You never were one to find
beauty in modern art,

Acrylic man.

Small minded nasty
Claiming the self victims of hate
Hating on everything
Selfish ****** wanting what's nice and easy
CAnt work hard
Can't give
Don't get in their self absorbed way
Too busy taking and expecting
Grow up and feed someone else's needs for a while
Maybe you'll grow a pair and eventually lean how to use them
For what they were actually intended for.
Chasing your Rainbows is no excuse
***** please!

Funny how we woke up in the morning
and pretended that tomorrow never happened—
strutted naked in mirrors celebrating our youth,
laughing, knowing suns and moons couldn’t do the same.

We borrowed our arms from the fridge
and peddled bicycles with bad breath—
trading war stories ‘cause we knew
if we came back alive
life would still be the death of us.