formally arranged
cloyingly sweet
flowers of summer
greenhouses
candles lit
furniture gleaming
to honour the guest
resplendent
in Sunday best
lying cold and still
in satin lined luxury
head
on a comfortable pillow
tie and lips
properly knotted
eyes closed
with glasses perched
on the bridge of his
powdered nose
the veneer of eternal good health
courtesy of
pots and brushes of
paints and powders
waiting for friends to arrive
speaking in hushed voices
careful of disturbing
his slumber
he was a good man
if there's anything i can do...
they filter in
they filter out
tears love and platitudes
in equal measure
quiet music
devoid of life
and meaning
insipid tunes
of eternal rest
it's a blessing really
did he suffer
the blues of Brahams
chimes sound to signal
each new arrival
hugs and air kisses
solemn handshakes
sympathetic smiles
until there are none
she is left alone with him
looking down
a tear
falls on his face
a quick touch up required
before he rests in perfect quiet
but for the ticking of his watch

changeling
evolving
journeying
from
pre-conception
mis-conception
immaculate conception
to post-partum
afterlife

travellers
engaging with pilgrims
seeking direction
trying to understand
nuances of relationship
between themselves and humankind

spiralling through vortices
and
mirrored portals to
a life of
clouded memory moments

lions salivating
blooded claws
eager to rip the straightjacketed soul
open
to explosions of truth
and invert the inverted drawer
exposing the convenient
lies that protect us
from the self-accusing soul
knowing we are born of choice
and sin
inevitably our bodies betray
the creator's design
through his eye of perceived benign benevolance.

empty dreams and visions
of moments
before time made us grow old
dimming vision of past joy
indulged, saved, in a treasure chest

with
baubles , bangles
beads of sweat
dripping relentlessly through
our hourglass
puddling in our slowing wake
up and know that love is tainted
before it begins.
before it started
after the dream of you
was the single star
beside the morning moon
that we shared
even when apart
was lost
in the tattered vision
of
perceived beauty
love died
reduced to triviality.
history killed it.
buried it, beneath a mountain
of hallmark cards
and internet memes.

this is the stuff of nightsweat  dreams

Effortlessly winging
on invisible thermals
high above
prey below
the raptor's natural dominion
steely talons stab
the surprised heart
taking rightful
sustenance

mundane predator
nicotine stained talons
among his prey
innocuous
invisible
rents in the fabric
of earthly interaction
grooming
grabbing
stealing
innocent mouse lives
feline precision
stunning his prey
sustaining breathing game players
with
chipped hearts
clipped tails
tight lipped
quiet mousy boys
in the shadow
of the predator's
earthy thermals
invisible
safety
assured with the stolen mouse voice

in his pant pocket
stinking
gasoline,oil, greasy chicken
twitching mouse nose
knows what his
sedated heart fears
shedding dry invisible
tears

he comes back
again
and
again
summoned by
a window signal until
he returns on
legs of betrayal
seeking
touch and predator love

unconscious
on broken knees
on the smelly
tool shed floor
eyes up
mouth open
viewing his depreciated soul
as merchandise
in the cheap
toy section of
woolworth's five and dime
eyes closed now

...and WALTER was his name-o

Mindlessly
running
down roads
dark shadows
etched
witches fingers
gnarled stretched
ready
to ******
his
skinny child's body
and hide it
beyond the reach of
the sun.
Breathlessly
trying to outrun
the secret
life
of private parts
and  thief's touch
on rainy afternoons
and stifling evenings.
Hearing his
feet
on  gravel
like snapping
kitten bones.
Sweat droplets
tickling ears
long stifled tears
threatening to escape
dusty dry
eyes.
The muted raven call
silently
screaming
into the
afternoon sky
to a sunday school deity
to provide a place
where his
ruthlessly exposed  heart
and always
remembering
mind
could stop and rest
awhile.
Suddenly
dead
heart burst
memory erased
blood calmed
dry eyes
focused
no escape
from tomorrow
and tomorrow's
tomorrow.

Dennis Rowling
03.30.15

I wonder sometimes if
you are real
or have I
written you
into being.

Did I create you out of
a need for someone
to love ...
out of leftover nouns and adjectives
from a poem I wrote
about the magical
angels in my garden?
Did your feelings
for me
flow from my pen
like blood from a deep cut
pulsating from my own heart?
Did your beauty
spring from a sonnet
I tried to write
but abandoned because
I couldn't capture you in iambic pentameter?
Are you the product of
feverish ramblings
penned in the mystic light
of the waning full moon?

I think you must be real;
for if not,
why do I cry
when I ponder that you are an illusion.

dennis

I want to dance with you
to the cricketsongs
of a warm August night
with sweet summer scents in the air,
on a grassy dance floor
beneath the soft ceiling lights
of stars and moon.

Come lie on the earthblanket,
rest with me
before the last waltz
while our eyes dance.

Then let me hold you
in the nakedness
of your ballgown,
and love you
as we twirl to
nightsounds.

dennis