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Fegger Jul 2010
You have such small,
Gentle hands.
The softest of touch,
As you trace invisible lines
Across my temples
And relaxed brow.

You stare into me.
I’d left windows open
Secretly hoping
That you’d brave
My weak defenses
And seek me out.

Inside, you comfort me
More than the fire
I had waiting for you.
You incise my soul
Drawing no blood,
Caressing open nerve.

Your skill of navigation
Within me:
I sense that you have been
Perhaps in a Time
When Dreams lived, flourished.

So petite in size—
Yet my own passion
Enwraps you and
I feel and breathe
Your every selfless,
Deliberate move.

My eyes, weary
And guilty of your entrance.
They complied when
Words failed to shield
From an intruder
Of Need and Desire.

I shall keep you
Safe, here.
Should you peer out my chest
You will see
The palm of my hand,
Guarding you in.

So fitting you are.
I am intoxicated and
Delirious with the liquids
We are now sharing.
I feel our flesh grafting,
As it always belonged.

I close my eyes,
While you settle in
Your forever home.
I will sleep now, dream
That you someday may be,
More than a photograph.
Fegger Jul 2010
Cocoon suspended ‘neath a branch,
Out of harmer’s range;
Churning in tight quarters then,
Awaiting for the change.

A cast she’d spun with great detail,
To blend into the scene;
Remain innocuous, choosing plain,
To spend such days serene.

This sanctuary has terms of time;
Yet flippant so, of sight;
Blinded by the darkness kept,
May only dream of flight.

There, outside this nurturing crypt,
Lies futures yet untold;
Exploring freedom, airless hours,
As wings will then unfold.

Alterations to her inner form
Complete in all detail;
While oblivious to worlds unknown--
Mem’ries without a trail.

As perforations tear a fold,
In which she will embark,
To crystal, glowing cast of moon
Within this evening, dark;

She wrestles to uncurl her girth
And wingspan so anew;
That seems so awkward, foreign and
Has converted different hue.

Now perched upon her drying bed,
She fans while instincts try
To capture sens’ry explosions
That lay to foundling’s eyes.

Beyond the glen, a spot she sees;
A single glowing blur.
Just then each tree bends toward one side,
As breaths sweep under her.

Weightless, floating, movement new,
She tests her longer arms,
That reach, manipulating wind,
Should quivers strike alarm.

The lure of the eerie glow,
Possess investigation,
As closer toward the light she flies,
Embraced with consternation.

Near collision with the beacon,
She’s halted in mid-air;
Translucent strings of sticky form,
She didn’t see, were there.

She wrestles, tries to free herself,
While a shadow looming near
Smiles with contentment of
His cunning craft of snare.

Slowly he approaches while
She looks to see his eyes,
So vacant of emotive flush,
With fear she starts to cry.

The octo-legged creature then,
Inserts his poisoned quill,
As venom circulates her life,
He waits until she’s still.

Then coils her in silky thread,
While dancing ‘bout his room.
Tho’ this is of his own design,
She returns, inside cocoon.

As thoughts of life, such brevity,
Released of any pain.
She closes youthful eyes at last,
And dreams of flight again.
Fegger, 2009
Fegger Jun 2010
She sits, emotionally bland,
Speaking mechanically;
Her right jaw, slightly misaligned,
From calcifications of former fractures;
And he is left-handed.
Lime-green circles about her
Distant, blue eyes indicate
That she has pleased him
This past week.
She believes that she
Is Improving, is better;
As the distance between
The necessary corrections
Is elongating, and she doesn’t
Nap as often.
He seems to love her more;
And frequently resorts
To audible amendments,
Or is too fatigued, himself,
To properly intervene
In her enlightenment.

She inhales, fidgets, re-adjusts,
To breathe without pain;
Calmly expressing accolades for
The strength, perseverance,
Of her son who doesn’t fail;
But weeps, in anonymity,
For her daughter who must
Have inherited her propensity
Toward weakness, malfunction.
Perhaps, over time,
He will see fit to guide
Their daughter with
Identical acts of love;
And she will be well.

She stares out the window,
Toward the windswept willow;
Catatonic, citing that
Past years, learning years,
Were resonating like the
Dry-fire echo of the
Empty Chamber in a game
Of Russian-Roulette.
The sound, repeated and
Sustained in dull memory;
The clicks that fed
The ugly tomorrows;
But her eyes sparkle as
She admits to a yearning,
For the strike of the pin
To fresh primer;
And she may only regret
That she will not hear
The Sound
Heralding her freedom.
Fegger, 2010
Fegger May 2010
Eerie, lifeless pools absorb,
No refraction of such light;
That heralds tardy love within,
Keeps it far from sight.
Once mem’ries sweet, metabolized,
To feed the hungry pangs,
Of loneliness and willful loss,
Opposed to rise again.

In slips of time, of photographs,
When hearts were joined and new;
When words were chosen kindly,
Adjustments far and few;
When radiance was so abound,
It burned within our eyes;
Now felled inside this lonesome pool,
In darkness, there it lies.

Yet prayers suspended in the thick,
Of nights that cannot quell,
Such longing of a spirit’s merge,
To comfort every cell.
My choice has come to face me now,
A dispatch fair and true.
Should I free my heart to waiting winds,
Or seek the depths with you?

I dream of eyes, such mirrors set,
That emit reflections—own;
A place where you and I may dwell,
In peace, in love, a home.
Such dreams I must confess are scant,
For these, in nights, I’ve cried;
So I’ll sadly walk from morbid pools,
And choose to be alive.
I was so moved by Neva's 'Dead Inside' that I was possessed to communicate with her in a language we both share.

Fegger, 2010
Fegger May 2010
In the stillness of her room
She sat with crepe of every hue;
And pictured each an unknown bloom
For which she’d bring to light.

Tearing, cutting, twist and fold
Fragile paper—color bold--and
Each would have a center—gold
Defying mask of night.

Recalling forms within her mind,
She forms the petals—every kind
In patient detail, every line—
Impostors she creates.

Stems, leaves and even thorns
At her hands, so real were born, and
Even Earth was soon to mourn—the
Charlatans of fate.

Hours passed, this lonesome day
While paper gardens on display
Breathing life of ease, defrayed--
Of artist’s willful spite.

Complete deception now her feat
Sprays a fragrance natural sweet,
That bees and birds will try to eat
In longing, hunger flight

Then by and by at midnight’s hour,
She brings outside each handmade flower,
And celebrates her godly power--
In glorious disdain.

Yet sadness lives as well in dreams;
As truth is always what it seems;
And lonely always finds its means,
To melt them in the rain.
Fegger, 2009
Fegger May 2010
The lantern sways, as shadows flash,
Mists draped in night so still;
Illuminating fleshless arms,
Creep-out along this hill.
Such guardians of soul-less mounds,
Wooden markers of the poor,
Bow in hallowed reverence
As sentries evermore.

Weeping, yet un-frightened,
She trips between each aisle;
Casting light against each stone,
Acknowledge each beguiled.
Then memory finds her grasping,
And clenching cold, damp stone
Denoting ‘neath a vacant plot,
For he never did come home.

‘Pon scattered grass and gravelly dirt;
Drops to reverent knee,
While fanning simple pleats about,
Her dress, in modesty.
She twists the **** and raises wick;
And it curls with cloak of flame.
She whets her lips, inhaling deep,
Then summons ‘pon his name:

“Bartholomew,  Bartholomew,
Can you see that I ‘ave come?
Are you near, me sweetest husband?
‘Tis I, your Mary Dunn!
I had me thoughts to come t’night,
To ‘ave a word with you,
That’s pressin’ on me heart so fierce,
Ya’ ‘round Bartholomew?
Aye, that’d be just like ye some,
To wait fer me confess;
A’twisten’ in me awkward words,
No salve fer me distress!
Yet I—I need t’hear yer voice
An’ calmin’ words to heal,
The anxious quiver, here, inside,
A’longin’ to reveal.”

The widow paused, collecting will,
And questioned own intent;
To cast a net to spirit’s world,
To herald self- repent.
She wrings her fingers nervously,
While waiting ‘pon the dead;
When suddenly a breeze did rise,
Then a hand upon her head.

“Mary Dunn, me Mary Dunn,
‘Ave not better things to do;
Than wander ‘bout such crypts at night,
A’hovered by the moon?
What keeps y’here in dank an cold,
So callin’ out fer me?
Ye know fer fact I’m dead by now,
An rottin’ in the sea!”

“It’s good to see ya’ too, my love;
Better then, to hear;
That death din’t take away that tongue,
Or how ye prone t’snear.
I ‘spected that I’d smell ya’ first,
That rancid scent of whale;
Yer eyes were once quite darker,
Yer skin not quite so pale”.

The spirit corpse then spun about,
Examined high and low,
The fiery bride he’d left behind,
With heart so still aglow.
Warmed by her excited eyes,
And cheeks so pink with life;
He felt a distance aching,
Longing for this wife.

“Ye got a bit of lonely, Mary,
That why ye come tonight;
‘Spectin’ glimpse ‘ov me, like this
‘Wud turn ya’ heart to right?
Sensible is how ye was,
Yet be scurryin’ to find,
Such wisdom in yer harkin’,
To terms ye felt unkind.”

“Stop with ya’!  Stop with ya’!
Ya’ stubborn, briney goat!
T’wasn’t me who boarded ship
An’ failed to keep afloat!
Aye, the heaven hasn’t tempered,
The iron in yer will.
Judge me not Bartholomew,
One, amongst the krill!”

The bearded ghost then chuckled,
‘Til tears came to his eyes.
Proud he was to have such time,
To spend with feisty bride.
He then retreats in silence,
As he gleans from her distress,
That she torments with a secret,
To him, she must confess.

“"Bartholomew, me love,"
she embarks to make her plea,
"Ye left me young an' fruitful still,
yet no child ‘pon me knee.
I'm not as sturdy as y'think,
An' tremble at the thought;
deprived I am of husbandry,
my womb be saved fer naught."
Without ye then, I’ll ‘ave no spring,
No child to remind,
Of splendid days, brighter sun,
Me husband now divine.
I’m askin’ yer forgiveness,
And yer permit to pursue,
The kindly callers come to me,
In absence then, of you.”

“Yer speakin’ of the cooper, Tim,
Or Drew, the smithies’ hand?
Aye, better off with men who keep,
Their feet upon the land!
But Tim, I’m sadly knowin’ that,
His time is comin’ due;
An’ if a child be yer design,
There ‘ain’t no seeds in Drew.
I’ll not be one to keep ya’,
To an empty marriage bed.
Lord knows ye d’serve a finer life,
Than keepin’ with the dead.
But ev’rythin’ that’s in me,
Needs ye hurt no more.
Death ‘as grant me favored eyes,
I ‘adn’t known before.
I’ll come ‘ere, e’vry night,
An’ visit, yer desire.
Honest, I will always be,
Tendin’ yer require.
Love ‘been mine for days of flesh,
Then, for eternity.
Go then now, me Mary Dunn,
An’ make a life for thee.”

With courage she did leave that night,
With freedom then realized,
To pair with then, another mate,
Forsaking former ties.
Yet, on the night that followed,
And for thousands after, too,
She chose the comp’ny of the ghost,
Her lost Bartholomew.

Each night she braved nature’s serve,
Through rain, or cold, or sleet;
Imbibing ‘pon such moment’s time,
To feed on love so sweet.
Each minute spent, Bartholomew,
Rejoiced in hardships, laughter;
And only God and Time will know,
Such treasures in hereafter.

One night, amidst November freeze,
Mary staggered there,
Among the stones akin to home,
With her husband shared;
Lungs revolting, gurgling swell,
Mouth of staining red;
Contrasting earthly suffering,
Found solace ‘mongst the dead.
Fevered to delirium,
Wet, silver-tainted hair,
She settles ‘side familiar post
And finds him waiting there.
Struggles so to form a breath,
In hopes that she may speak,
Surrendering the day’s accounts;
But fears she is too weak.

“Aye, ‘tis time, me Mary Dunn,
A’time that ye come home.
Beyond this night, forevermore,
Y’ll nev’r be alone.
I wish that I could reach ya’ now,
An pull ya’ ‘cross the veil
That’s kept us ‘part these many years,
In spite of what’s prevailed.”

“So ‘lighten me, me whaler man,”
She coughed a pale reply.
“Why’d ya’ choose to lie to me,
To keep me as yo’r bride?
The cooper, he outlived us both,
Eight children sprung from Drew;
Ye lied to me for all these years,
What say, Bartholomew?”

“I feared me own accord, me lass,
From terms set forth above;
Ye cannot cross to waitin’ arms,
Unless ye go with love.
An’ I, but one love known to life,
This chance then rest with you
To be me escort to the Lord,
This, I say is true.
Should ye have taken ‘nother man,
I feared that ye’d be his;
An’ ye’d be taken up with him,
While I’d be left like this;
A-hoverin’ in between such space,
An’ time, by lonesome self;
While pinin’ for me heart of life,
Me Mary, ‘n no one else.”

“Aye, such flat’ry from  des’prate ghost;
It was my life ye know;
I seen ya’ for deceiver,
So many years ago.
But I choose’d to keep me vows to you,
‘Til heaven takes me in;
An’ if I granted sim’lar choice,
I’d choose the same a’gin’.

I’m dying love, I feel it now,
Me spirit needs to leave;
This body sez it’s had enough,
Me time is done, indeed.”
“Lay down, me lass, breath peace,
Lay down ‘n be there, still;
Our fate, as love, ‘pears destiny,
As both our lungs were filled.”

Mary Dunn surrendered then,
To callings of her spirit;
With forever longing arms of his,
She had no cause to fear it.
United once again, at last,
Of faith and love of few,
She crossed into Eternity,
With her love, Bartholomew!
As this represents a needed edit, I'd like to extend my gratitude to Drew for precise observation, critique/guidance and to my dear poet friend, Ron Gardner,  who donated several verses to this piece that were clearly more appropriate than what I had penned originally.  Thanks, so much, gentlemen!!!

If you are reading this, you did me a great favor of time...thanks.  

Fegger, 2010
Fegger May 2010
I am the moonlight
That slips through
Unguarded windows;
Resting weightless hands
Across your sleeping skin.
Lines of perfect form
And curvature explored
Unaware, unannounced,
By tender filaments
Of illuminated air.
I dare not reach your eyes
In fear that I must retreat
Upon discovery
Of my curious event.
I use the dark,
And its silence
To foster my
Desired anonymity.
By morning’s light,
You will not notice,
The etchings of love
I have drawn upon you;
Yet, I believe that
In the warmth
You will come to know
That I’m here
With you
Fegger, 2009
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