My Mars bar-
launched out of its wrapper
like a Patriot missile,
melted onto the hot pavement
looking like a fresh doggy ****
and nothing like--

“A little bit of Mars”

A poodle ***** on a lead, sniffed
then licked it clean away-
as if it had never been.

He wore the casual cardigan of his father,
pouting at the shoulders, it reminded him
that he had not reached the old man’s stature.

I could see it comforted;
Small hands in oversized woollen pockets
recounting nothing but the odour of nicotine,
a missing button,
a long-standing elbow patch-
unmatched- in battleship grey.

In it  he wore a new peace of mind.
There in the fire glow,
his own fragility seemed
to take on warrior status.
Together, were they overtly proud
of its days of small fame.
It had taken possession, and I could see,
It would remain his alone until the day he died
Or until some kind friend stole it away.

Death, entails
no doubts, regrets,
faith, despondency
wisdom or despair.

Neither love, hate,
veneration- or conceit.

All is nothing  at all

A smile as a quiet moment          
reaches out, for me alone
I close my eyes and
It falls on my lips,
my neck ,my *******-
a river of surprise
bathing my body with peace.
============

I am claimed by the ambience,
the mood, the closing down of day.
Temperatures plummet and heels are hastening away.
Away from dark skies, starless.
The moon; half full, half- who knows where.
pays no heed to the need of light below.
A grey gloom, like a veil, hangs momentarily-
then plunges into night.
Street lights enhance diminutive snowflakes in their ark,
only to die on my shoulders or make slush at my feet.

Slip-sliding my way home.
Curtains are closing;
In warm kitchens, smells, and smiles,
for hot stew and chilled wine are the order of the moment. .
Sleepy children, well fed, are tucked up in bed.

A perfumed woman al-together mine, yes mine
winds her tired body around my own
drinking in my every waking moment,
until at long last the new ambience close eyes.

(C) Bebe Evans all rights reserved

Don’t spread me ‘neath the old willow
Or, I prithee; not the garden old Rover
used and abused and nothing grows  
Neither bury me in the forest
or on a grave in the cemetery
And floating  me out to sea-
that’s not for me.

Take me to a mountain top
where snow is pillow soft,
leave the stark grey mark,
all my earthly worth
on that pure white earth
where I can feel eternity.

(C) Bebe Evans, All rights reserved

Look for them across acres of sky,
where doves reside and ravens cry.        
Where man is bidden by his star
to follow and be what men are-
good and evil, bone and sight.
black or white