Sometimes when the world is closing in
to unparalleled dimensions and yesterday's
those flaws that crawl and pawn
as if held by an unresistable crab
unable to surface and breath above the waters

The other day stone cold ice consumed me
unable to escape the frosty breath
frozen in a mass of unbroken lakes
uncharmed, controlled by unmoved currents
dellusioned in an inescapable summount

Somedays the ways of the world are unquestioned
overshadowed by an adornment of selfishness
coloured in hues of  spotlighted web
tangled by eroded days of the week
facing changes as an inferno of chaos

Esoteric Eleanor...
Is a woman set apart
She has an obscure interest
In a certain type of art.

She collects her little fairies
Has an interest in old tomes
Has few, if any, closer friends
Has tons of garden gnomes.

She owns a run-down mansion
With lots of dusty rooms
Her letters closed with sealing wax
She speaks in garbled runes.

She met her fate one cloudy day
Oh yes, she is quite dead.
Her foot slipped on the marbles
That spilled out of her head!

Yes, she lost her footing
Alas, she is no more
Lies within her antique coffin
Esoteric Eleanor.


Catherine Jarvis
(C) 12/15/2019

I often wonder, when Death seals my eyes,
Who will read my poems, who will analyze
Every word and thought that dripped from my pen
As angels wept and softly sighed Amen

Many eyes will see just meaningless words
That flounder in their minds like wounded birds;
But dare I hope for but one astute heart
Able to translate my crude form of art!

While reading my words, he'll breathe a deep sigh,
Sensing each torment as it marches by:
Loneliness, with many a sleepless night,
Tears that clouded the moon's radiant light,
Prayers intended to shake Heaven's rafters
But never yielding "happy ever afters,"
Carefully planned dreams, all destined to fail
Like ill-fated plots in a fairy tale

Will these rhyming words so carefully wrought
Clearly illustrate the love that I  sought?
Then down his sorrowful face tears will flow,
Having realized the depths of my woe

And if his tears were to dampen the soil
Where I lie in rest, set free from life's toil,
Will I know he took pity on my plight,
Thus granting peace in my eternal night?

It’s been three weeks, and
I’ve ******* more about
the agony of losing you
than you ever did
about the agony
of actually
dying.

On a scale of one to ten,
how much does it hurt?

Guess you had the higher pain threshold, after all.
Then again, you had better drugs, too.

And so it turns out that
what you thought was the moon
is in fact just the lamp in an
old lady's window,
and the universe shrinks down
to that one dim square,
where some stranger
is brewing tea, or
thumbing a photograph album, or
tidying imaginary mess, or
getting ready to
go to bed, alone.
It's November, and it feels
later than it is.
You don't know the lady
in the window with
the lamp you mistook for
the moon.  Your orbits
never bring you closer than
this: each one in their
respective window, their
respective light burning low,
and the street between
seeming very dark.
Yet some part of you dreads the moment
when she turns out
that lamp, and no part of you
can explain why.
It's November.
And it's November forever.